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salt-is-a-terrible-currency · 4 months

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OMG I'M SOBBING

Gurney, baby, my baby boy, my big beefy baby boy 😭😭😭😭😭

I love this, thank you so so so so so much for writing it 😘

Someone To Come Home To

Happy super late very Merry Christmas/New Years @salt-is-a-terrible-currency! This is what I wanted you to read so bad. Hope it lives up to the hype.

Gurney Halleck x F!Reader.

Part One.

The news of Gurney’s death refused to register in your brain. Gurney couldn’t be dead, he was too strong, too smart. He meant too much to you to be dead. As Leto placed what was meant to be a comforting hand on your shoulder, your very form seemed to crumble. Leto caught you before you hit the floor, all but dragged you to a hard seat as you tried to process the news. You just couldn’t put it together. Gurney. Dead. Dead Gurney. Gone. Gurney was gone, forever. He wasn’t coming back, he wasn’t returning. Leto, stalwart, rock solid Duke of some far away kingdom, held your hand tightly, thick brows knit together, wondering what you were going to do next.

To your credit, you didn’t lose your ever-loving mind in the middle of the hospital. You hiccupped, turned to Duke Leto, and whispered, “Can I see him?”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Leto says gently, “He was severely wounded…” The Duke swallows thickly, emotion threatening to overtake him as well. “It’s bad.”

“Please,” You sniffle, “I need to say goodbye.” Leto hesitated for only a moment before relenting. He began to give orders to the hospital staff, then when you were ready, holding tightly on to you, he led you to Gurney’s room.

It had been cold in that room, Gurney’s body covered by the thin hospital sheet. His hand stuck out on the edge. Leto let go of you and stood back in the hallway, so you’d have some privacy. You stood next to Gurney’s body for what seemed like eternity before you gathered the courage to tell him in death what you couldn’t in life. “I love you,” you said, your voice little more than a whisper, thick with emotion. “I love you more than I’ve ever loved anyone.” You grabbed his hand, marveling at how warm it still was. You choked on a sob, squeezing his hand, wishing you’d told him this months ago. Leaning over his dead body, you kissed his forehead. “Bye Gurney.” With that, you let his hand go and walked out of the hospital, wondering if you’d ever be happy again.

That had been a week ago. Today, Gurney’s funeral was attended by yourself, and four other people. Leto, Paul, Jessica, and Duncan, Gurney’s only friends. Leto invited you to dinner, trying to goad you with information on Gurney’s will. Apparently, the old man left everything to you, which was substantial, considering he’d been Leto’s well paid bodyguard for years. You declined roughly and walked away from the Atreides family as fast as you could. A big part of you blamed Leto for Gurney’s death, you just couldn’t face him right now.

You made it home just before dusk. As you walked into the increasingly darkening apartment, you didn’t bother taking off your shoes, your jacket, nothing. You simply threw your purse into the belly of the beast and made your way to your room. You flop down on your bed, curl up, and cry yourself to sleep.

Hours later, when it’s totally dark, you’re not sure what awakens you. Your brain is screaming ‘something is wrong’. You lie there, the very same position you fell asleep in, and listen, trying to puzzle it out. For the first time in a week, you feel something other than overwhelming grief as sounds from your living room reach your ears. You reach for the bat underneath your bed and roll out of it. Kicking off your nice shoes, you hear the intruder walking down the hall. Positioning yourself by the door, your grip the bat tightly, praying your sweaty palms don’t fuck things up for you. As soon as whoever managed to break into your home opens the door to your room, you swing, making contact. The intruder lets out a satisfying “Ohh!” And falls to the ground, you swing down again, as hard as you can. Before you can get a third swing in the person kicks your feet from under you. You land hard on your ass, teeth clicking together. You don’t have time to gather your wits before they’re on you. You immediately begin to struggle with all your might. “It’s me!” They yell, “Darling it’s me! It’s Gurney,” You go limp in the darkness.

The familiar smell of him envelopes you, making you realize that it isn’t just a dream, “There now,” he says, rolling off you. The light flickers on, you blink rapidly as your eyes adjust. Sure enough, there’s Gurney Halleck, offering his hand to help you off the floor.

Something inside you snaps. You snarl viciously, get up, and tackle him back to the ground. You get a few good hits in before he begins to block your fists with his forearms. “What is wrong with you?” You screech, “Was this some kind of sick joke?”

“No!”

“Then why, why did you do it?”

“It had to be done!”

“What had to be done? Why? Was it Leto, did he tell you to do it?”

“Leto doesn’t know!” This stops you in your tracks completely. Sensing you’ve calmed down, Gurney peeks out from behind his massive forearms to chance a glance at you. “Leto doesn’t know?” You repeat. The thought of Gurney keeping something from Leto seemed more inconceivable to you than Gurney dying. “What doesn’t Leto know?” You ask, staring hard at the man beneath you. “That I’m alive. Only you do, you and Duncan.”

“Me and Duncan,” You repeat. Gurney lets his arms down completely as you puzzle it out. He rests his hands on your hips, unsure of which way things are going to go after this. “Gurney, what is going on?” You finally ask, getting off him.

He follows suit, getting off the floor, following you into the kitchen. “I faked my death,” He explained as if it were the most natural thing in the world. “Why?” you ask, wincing as you turn on your light. Normally you kept a tidy household, but you hadn’t been able to do much since his fake death. Take out containers, delivery receipts, and used plastic utensils littered your kitchen counter tops. You’d gone in there to make tea but decided to clean instead.

As you grabbed a garbage bag and began throwing things into it, violently, Gurney began to explain. “It was after the Tuscany incident,” you grunted to show you were listening. Tuscany had been one of the worst missions Leto sent Gurney on. Your man had come back beaten, bruised, and sick with a cold. You nursed him back to health; it was then you began to hate Leto. “It was in Tuscany I realized something…” He trailed off as you tied the bag shut. You placed it next to the overflowing garbage can and took out another bag. “Then, when I got home, you told me what I’ve been needing to hear for years. It was time to get out. I knew Leto would let me go if I asked, but the moment he or Paul got in trouble again, he’d try to pull me right back in.”

“What was it?” You asked, cutting Gurney off, unwilling to give Leto a thought. You finally turn to Gurney, exhausted from your week, angry at him, at Leto, at Duncan. “What was what?”

“What the thing you realized in Tuscany?” Gurney crosses his arms, clearly uncomfortable. “That I had someone to come home to. Someone that I loved, deeply, and that someone loved me. That for once, I couldn’t just die in some shit filled back alley because there was a job that needed to be done. I needed to get home. I needed to get home in one piece.” The silence behind his statement hangs heavy in the air. You want to yell at him, scream, tell him you’re never going to forgive him. Instead, you drop the trash bag, tears forming in the corners of your eyes. Gurney rushed across the kitchen pulling you into his arms. You let out a sob that broke his heart. You were angry and relieved and grief stricken all over again.

As you sobbed, he didn’t say anything, simply stood there and allowed you to get his shirt wet with your tears. He promised that with all he had in him, however many days he had left, he’d spend all of it making things up to you. He had to, you were his life, his world, his love, he owed that to you, and so much more.

#dune #gurney halleck #gurney x reader #my husband 💕

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salt-is-a-terrible-currency · 7 months

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1. I want to be pressed against a bus window by a handsome man 😭

2. Reader loves autumn so I love reader

3. Reader being relatable once again because she skips breakfast

4. There are no words for how angry I am that I'll never know the taste of a lobster roll

5. He won a bunch of stuff for her 🥺

6. I hate Jake. I hate him so much. See gif 👇 for my reaction to that ending

You made me want to harm this fictional man and I don't even go to the Sweetbitter school.

Amazingly written, as always ❤️

An Acquired Taste | Jake x FReader

Synopsis: You bring Jake to Long Island's Oyster Fest

Tags: Voyeurism if you squint, with a light dash of angst; Alcohol consumption; Smoking

Words: 9.3K

And thank you to @ursulaismymiddlename who deals with my Jake fixation with nothing but grace.

Link to AO3

There’s not much of a fully formed memory left over from the previous night, except for the little inconsequential detail that it was meant to be an early one.

It had been a typical Saturday evening shift. Fast-paced, stressful, and with the forever presence of snobby clientele. Though, in the restaurant's defense, most of the work week flowed with a similar rotation. But last night was the first Saturday in years you wouldn’t dare keep track of where the Sunday that followed was a day off, and apparently that translated to being amenable to the notion of getting fucked up.

That wasn’t the plan originally. Originally, you were meant to call it immediately after closing. You didn’t even dare to attempt partaking in shift drinks, simply vanished to the lockers to stuff any dirty laundry in a bag because dammit you’d get an early start to said day off and be able to freely partake in a chore and the event you had taken the day off for in the first place.

That was until a certain bartender asked if you’d be going to Home Bar, and fuck if he didn’t have a face you could say no to.

You’re sat next to him now, feeling like a teenager as the pair of you among a crowd of strangers get crammed onto a school bus headed for downtown Oyster Bay.

“Is someone a little too hungover?” he murmurs into your ear. And maybe it’s not just the bus that makes you feel like an adolescent girl. The seats are too narrow, meant for literal children. And Jake is practically on top of you in the small space.

When you glance up at him, the rim of your sunglasses brush the sharp-edged jut of his cheek and, in your stupor, you try desperately not to stare at his lips.

You grin reassuringly, even if the chatter surrounding you seems a little too loud at the moment. It’ll get better once you’re let outside and don’t have the odor of pervasive burning rubber and oil combined with the heady scent of him flooding your senses, you’re certain. “I’m fine, came and got you didn’t I?”

He tilts his head back in appraisal, lips slightly parted as he considers his response. Unlike you, sunglasses don’t cover his eyes, so the striking blue hue of them is a perfect sea struck by sunlight anyone could drown in.

“Good,” he settles on. Then somewhat reluctantly adds - “Because I uh -” there’s a huffing noise akin to a chuckle that hones your attention more than anything thus far. It’s sheepish, almost. “I’m actually. I’ve been looking. Forward -”

“Holy shit.”

“Don’t fuckin’ say anything.”

You bite your lip to temper the expression growing on your face. “Is - is Jake excited about something?”

“No,” he says quickly. But his voice is soft, so soft in fact that you can barely hear it over the sliding doors of the bus slamming to a close and the engine revs, beginning its departure from the local train station. Jake shifts in the seat; consequentially pressing you closer to the window and his eyes dart around and he can deny all he wants but it’s weak and you don’t believe him in the slightest. You can’t help but wonder when was the last time he’d gotten out of the city. Away from the restaurant, or had maybe done something he truly enjoyed that goes against the fucking thick facade he dons daily.

But when his gaze seeks out yours once more, it’s almost like he can read your thoughts. Get the gist of your own excitement for him, the hangover actively taking a steady backseat to the fact that you’re treating him to something with such good effect. He visibly relaxes, eyes flitting about your face.

“Don’t talk.”

You’ll take that. Perfectly content with spending the ride watching the town pass by through the window with him comfortably pressed against you. A win’s a win.

It’s right in the middle of October, and as much as you love living in the city, one of the few things you actually miss about Long Island is witnessing the more flush change in season. Summer weather is a thing of the past, bleeding into the picturesque full bloom of autumn. What was green is now vibrant yellows and luscious reds. When it’s bright and sunny like today, the temperature is just warm enough that one doesn’t need a coat, and then fades into cozy crisp air under the blanket of night.

IIt’s your favorite time of the year, and just so happens to coincide with Oyster Fest.

The annual festival practically shuts down the entire town while thousands of people flock in attendance. Traffic is barely more than a halted complete stop, there isn’t a lick of parking for miles, and sidewalks brim with activity as bars, restaurants and shops all remain open for business, and the swarm only thickens once the bus deposits its passengers between a clearing of town parks and baseball fields located directly beside the Bay.

To the immediate right are typical fair attractions; cheap fried foods and beer, a Ferris Wheel among other classic yet suspiciously rickety rides, including a Funhouse and the Zipper. Scattered snugly among them are grids of carnival game stations and - at this early hour of the afternoon - it is entirely overrun with families and groups of teenagers.

But straight ahead lies the main attraction. Metal barricades form a path that leads the crowd, and you with Jake in tow, to the cleared out lots ahead. Except it’s not so clear now, quite the opposite. The heads of dozens of booths stick out atop the throngs of people. Each one ran, you know, by various vendors from all over the tri-state area, and each one selling anything from varieties of food, to homemade goods and trinkets.

The layout is roughly the same as you remember and the medley of aromas make you salivate. Being hungover is a bygone thing and instead, your stomach growls with a not so subtle rumble thanks to opting against breakfast that morning. You pass a knowing look over your shoulder, eyeing Jake with interest, only to find delight in the way he surveys the landscape of food, drink, and the sparkling view of the Long Island Sound posing as a charming backdrop to it all.

“Oysters for days, but I’m assuming you want to hit that first?”

The hint of a rare, genuine smile is nothing short of chuffed before he’s even looked at you, and when he does, it’s as he draws on a pair of shades.

“Desperately.”

Maneuvering through the herd of people is no easy feat. It’s all high energy and excitement; even at a distance from across the lot, the voice of a miked up emcee booms from the main stage and an audience roars over an oyster eating or shucking competition. Queues are nearly indistinguishable as you pass through a section dedicated to gumbo and jambalaya, clam chowder and lobster bisque. You almost trip over a leashed dog and instinct makes you reach a hand out behind you, not wanting to get separated, and Jake takes it without question, letting you steer him ahead.

The soft weight of it feels so natural tucked around yours that it barely becomes a distraction like it might’ve in any other circumstance. Not until you reach the tented area closest to the pier. There’s a swirling assembly line of people waiting to approach it like they would a ride in a theme park and you sidle in once a gap reveals itself. Only then do you fret over having to let his hand go because - well - you don’t particularly want to.

"Uh, hello?"

And just like that, the moment is over. Both of your heads simultaneously turn toward the sound of the annoyed voice and find a group of boys behind you. The one in front gestures vaguely, eyebrows raised as he huffs impatiently.

"There's like, a line going on here? You have to wait in line."

The snappy intrusion was annoying on its own, but now you're fucking hungry and mere moments away from delicious relief; you stiffen at the accusation with a flood of irritation.

"The fuck's it look like we're doing?" you snap back without hesitation.

Jake snorts at your outburst, but otherwise it appears to be effective as the guy's body language seems to relax.

"Shit, alright. My bad."

You scoff and turn back around to catch up to the pace of the line ahead, and when you stop, Jake presses close enough to your backside that he can lean down to speak subtly along the rim of your ear.

"You're either very confident, or you just totally cut the line without realizing."

"Hm?" His deep voice makes your skin tingle, a sensation you’ve well practiced to endure over time. "Wait. What?"

"I mean, I don't fuckin' mind. That was kind'a cute. I think you scared him."

"Are you serious-?"

You chance a glance back, grateful for wearing sunglasses so that you can look around inconspicuously. And sure enough, the line continues much farther back than where you started. Significantly farther.

"Oh my god, I swear I had no idea-"

"Shhh.. Just keep walking," Jake's hands are on your shoulders with a gentle nudge forward, not remotely trying to contain his amusement while you flush with mortification. "We're committing now."

Indeed you are, but quite frankly - and yes, cutting is bad, it's rude, you'd tell anyone off for doing the same - it ultimately works out for the best and with very little regret because a moment later, you're blanketed by the shade of the expansive tent.

Beneath it lie rows of picnic tables, one after the other, and dozens of volunteers flit around in a blur of quick movements as oysters come piling in on trays by the (literal) boatful. They work in practiced motions, cleaning and shucking and plating the morsels, while others working the counters tend to visitors and shuffle around whole wads of cash.

It's a five for five deal, and the operation is so speedy that before you know it, you've handed over a ten dollar bill and come away with two plates and a lemon slice each. There’s a condiment station just outside the tent’s perimeter, and while Jake walks past it - you know he prefers his oysters straight up - you stop for hot sauce and a dollop of horseradish, some napkins and a fork just in case.

He meanwhile moseys over to a space out of the way of foot traffic over by the pier, making for quite the sight. And by it, you definitely don’t mean the water. Jake is dressed in his usual attire, a leather jacket and jeans combination. But today he surprised you with a button up-shirt printed with a variety of colors woven into wild patterns that somehow manages to actually work, and it’s up for debate if it’s because of the shirt itself or because it’s him. When you’d arrived at his apartment earlier, you’d done a triple take, unable to recall ever seeing him wear color at all - which of course was received with a smartass remark.

But the sunlight reflected off the surface of the water casts Jake in a perfect halo as if he’s being showcased. Skin opalescent in its brightness, throat bare to the mild air as he tilts his head back and raises an oyster to his rosy-pink lips.

You were fucked, but you save face as you approach, content to be happy with how he appears to be enjoying himself while he too balances two plates on one hand.

“They meet your exceptional standards?” you sass.

“Yes,” he states, simple and firm, and you finally take the pleasure of digging into your own.

With the slice of lemon, you squeeze a healthy trickle of juice over the shells, poke a morsel with a fork to be sure it’s properly shucked, then pick the first one up. Your mouth is already watering by the time it reaches your lips and you knock it back with a gentle slurp. It greets you at once with a flavor both briny and sweet, mingling with the spicy tang of the hot sauce, lemon and horseradish, all wrapped up with a pleasantly refreshing chill that resonates deep within your gullet.

“Better than the restaurant,” he continues; your mumbled agreement is unintelligible as you rush for seconds. “Better than the Cape, though?” You peer up at him suspiciously, slowly chewing around your next mouthful. He’s starting to reek of mischief and tilts his head in mocking consideration. “I don’t know, can’t make up my mind.”

“Is someone sounding a little competitive?”

Jake grins and you’re relieved his eyes are hidden behind a pair of sunglasses. “Of course not.”

“This is because of the clam chowder, isn’t it.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he lies, bound to have seen the booth.

You mull over a response and suck down another oyster. “I suppose a lobster roll is out of the question?”

“I didn’t say that.” He suddenly steps closer; you need to crane your neck a little higher to look up at him, and then his hand closes the distance between you. His thumb grazes somewhere below the curve of your lip, swiping at some wayward remnant of lemon juice or briny moisture or who cares what, only to draw it back to his mouth where he flicks at it with the tip of his tongue. “I’m still hungry.”

Not a single coherent thought graces your mind with its presence, and if possible he seems further delighted by this. He lights up with a smile before grabbing your hand, and it’s a struggle to find your footing and keep the rest of your oysters upright when he drags you along. “C’mon, let’s go.”

Once some proper food is in your stomachs, it’s decided that splitting up is the best option to cover more ground. Oysters may flow constantly throughout the weekend, but historically it’s not unheard of for other vendors to sell out of supply before the day is over. And as the crowd only peaks as the afternoon goes on, Jake is surprisingly up to task and it is.. Nice.

When it comes to the restaurant, there is no doubt that with the long hours, post-shift late night outings, and occasionally the spaces in between, that those you work with consume the majority of your life. But Jake is.. Different. Admittedly, he’s an asshole, with a wickedly dry sense of humor and a passing dislike for the general public. Things you aren’t necessarily opposed to. Things that, admittedly, you have in common. You like him. He’s an actual friend. It just so happens that sometimes you want him a little bit more than that.

It is a fact that you are more than content to deal with, even if today makes it more of a challenge. Today is more than the shared cigarette breaks and the moments of hiding out in the walk-in, and it feels a far cry still beyond those late night outings with the rest of the crew. This is proper fucking bonding and perhaps it would be less daunting if Jake didn’t appear to be enjoying it so fucking much.

You take turns holding a place in line while the other will wander off in search of something else, only to reconnect immediately after to split the reward, sharing quite literally, whether it be off the others’ plate or via an outstretched hand. The strategy sees you through to the aforementioned clam chowder (a satisfying win as Jake - who adamantly refused to approve of the creamy soup - wound up stealing the last ounce of it by snatching your wrist to guide the final spoonful toward his greedy mouth), grilled scallops and octopus, steamed mussels, and eventually a lobster roll.

At other times you merely stand aside and watch as Jake schmoozes with vendors. He asks questions with an uncharacteristic interest, oozing enough charm that they inevitably offer up a small sample of something to taste for free.

The oyster tent remains a frequented spot. The queue has grown; has more than doubled in size since your initial stop, even as it manages to maintain the assembly line pace. Two pints of locally brewed beers are cradled close to your chest as you depart what’s considered the designated alcohol tent. It’s separated from the rest of the festival, an enormous setup that requires a stamp on the wrist to gain entry. Inside is cold beer on tap, a limited selection of Long Island wines, and a projector screen that will air this week’s Sunday night football. The crowd packed inside is far from small.

You bob and weave your way back to where Jake waits, ready to purchase another ten or so oysters (you both lost count after thirty), slipping through a thicket of people so dense that you focus on keeping the drinks upright, and don’t so much as notice the two young women chatting him up - until you’re just a few arms lengths away and come to an abrupt halt.

Well, fuck.

It’s being too used to seeing this type of scene play out that makes you check the time, a part of you wondering if Jake’s about to bail and disappear with the both of them. In your defense, it wouldn’t be the first time; his reputation precedes him and it certainly isn’t unearned. His ability to attract may sometimes seem beyond the point of his own control - you’ve often wondered if it comes with the territory of being a bartender - but he has never been above easily taking what’s thrown his way either.

Their appearances likely mean little to Jake, he’s nondiscriminating that way. But upon second glance, you are all too familiar with their type. One of them is a tall brunette, the other a softball-built-yet-petite blond. Both clad head to toe in yacht club gear: pleated shorts and polo shirts, brown leather boat shoes. Even their headbands practically match in bright elastic shades of pastel.

They’re North Shore girls. And a guy like Jake tempts in the form of parental rebellion and a potential connect for drugs. Whatever reservations you briefly experience are brushed aside, and now there’s little hesitation as you sidle up beside him, interrupting their conversation with a light nudge against his elbow.

“Your beer,” you announce, with eyes only for him.

Jake looks down at you, head cocked with a knowing grin. There’s something soft there too, difficult to see through the sunglasses, but you can sense it nonetheless.

“Thanks, babe,” he says, voice a gentle rumble. He takes the beer and before you know it, his arm is wound across your shoulders and he leans in, ducking down until those rosy lips meet yours in a gentle kiss.

There are few times you find yourself grateful for drunken mishaps of the past, and this split second happens to be one of them. For if you hadn’t kissed Jake prior to this, hadn’t felt the silk of his lips caught in a suspended moment of pleasure, perhaps the effect could melt you to your knees. As it stands, your lashes flutter across the tips of his cheeks. Without bidding, your mouth responds, drifting along the seam of his, and it’s lucky he moves with it even if it’s smugness you sense that drives him.

For a second you almost manage to forget what’s brought this on, but then there’s that prickling sensation of being watched. By a pair of ogling stares, specifically. You force yourself apart from Jake and clear your throat, grateful your voice is stronger than you could’ve guessed as you survey his current company. “Making friends?”

The girls emit enough dismay at your arrival to stroke an ego, but not without a glare and a roll of their eyes. The brunette crosses her arms under her chest with a drawl of - “We were just talking,” while the blonde ignores you completely, focusing on Jake with an accusatory - “You didn’t mention -”

“My girlfriend,” Jake finishes smoothly, and you resist the urge to balk at him. “She’s showing me around her hometown.”

“Close enough,” you retort dryly. Your actual hometown is out farther east, a little detail that matters to precisely no one at the moment. Apart from your arrival, your presence is barely acknowledged. The twin glares stay trained on Jake, put out and bitter as they half turn to catch up with the rest of the line. “Maybe we’ll see you around.”

“That was salty,” you snark once they’re out of earshot. Though not quite out of sight, as you both trail slowly behind them. “I’m your girlfriend now?”

He doesn’t outright laugh, but from being nestled against him (his arm has stubbornly stayed in place), you can feel something close to it as he mulls it over.

“Consider us even.”

You scoff and sputter immediately. “That was one time!” The time in question being at a disco, of all places. A creep had been harping on getting your number and then some. Everyone was too busy dancing to notice except for Jake who - thanks to his antisocial tendencies - was reliably stationed at the bar. He was more than welcoming to your advances, and the strange man left you alone after that.

“Works pretty fuckin’ well though, huh?”

He’s not wrong, you admit, and relent a little at that. “Fine. I’ll allow it.” And if you feel emboldened by both the title of endearment and the public display of affection, well, you will simply refuse to look at it much more deeply than that… Even if, admittedly, your voice comes out a little flirty when you go on to add - “But if I’m your girlfriend, then that makes this a date and -”

Jake’s pained groan echoes inside his cup as he takes a long pull of beer.

“And we’re at a festival which means you have to win me a prize at one of those shitty carnival games.”

He stops short, forcing you to stop with him, and fixes you with a glare. It lasts a breath too long, but you stand your ground, refusing to give under the weight of it, when eventually -

“I fuckin’ rock at shitty carnival games.”

Your face splits with a grin, and a smirk tugs at his.

“Guess you’re gonna have to prove it.”

But before any games, there is one last stop that can’t be missed: a lobster dinner for a measly twenty bucks. No such deal would exist anywhere either on Long Island or back in the city, and anyone who deemed themselves a lobster lover would be foolish to pass up on the offer. One that likely wouldn’t last much longer this late in the day.

So when you manage to anxiously outlast the line, you’re grateful once you both walk away with a plate each in hand, and for the last iota of room in your belly that still has an appetite.

The both of you assume a spot at a picnic table - few and far between, and shared with a trio of friends who occupy the opposite half - with Jake perched on top of it, and you sat on the bench beside his legs. In near silence now as you chow down as if eating hasn’t been the sole productivity of the day. The lobster is perfectly steamed, not dry, an error all too easy to make, and with a half-ear of corn and quarter-pound cup of melted butter as accompaniments.

There is a nagging thought, though. One you’ve been mulling over since parting ways with the two obvious up-to-no-good snobs. You peer up at Jake while you finish chewing, already moving on to cracking open a claw, having an inner debate on whether it’s worth it or not to bother mentioning. Jake is.. Well, private isn’t exactly the correct term. In the time you’ve known him, he can be almost too open with certain topics once you get him talking. But it’s rarely too personal, the deep down nitty gritty. And depending on what mood he’s in, he’ll either shut down completely, or bite your head off.

But the day so far has turned in a direction you hadn’t predicted. It’s gone better, much better than you could’ve hoped for when you first took the plunge in inviting him to come with. And in any case, his mood is as good as you’ve ever seen it. His fingers work the lobster tail apart, lips pursed in concentration, an oily sheen to them from the butter and eventually he pauses to take a few gulps of beer.

He looks fucking gorgeous and you can’t stand it and fuck it -

“So,” you start, noncommittally at first. And you can only tell he’s listening by the raise of his brows. “I.. can’t help but notice that. Y’know.. You didn’t run off with those girls.”

There’s little reaction to that. The upraised brows drop, he lets out a small huff before forking a couple of bites into his mouth. “You thought I was what - that I was gonna leave you here? Have a fuckin’ coke bender with them? Get laid?”

“Oh, I knew it!” you snap a tad overzealous. “Sorry. I fucking knew they wanted drugs. Anyway.”

Jake snorts, unbothered by the outburst. “Yeah, I’ve seen the type. They fuck you for drugs, and then their frat sized boyfriends just happen to show up. Conveniently in time to kick the shit out’a you. Rob you, obviously. I like my asshole where it is, thanks.”

You hum around a mouthful of lobster. “Sounds like you’re talking from experience.”

“Or maybe I just know a thing or two about a thing or two,” he sasses back. He takes a bite of his corn on the cob, an act that has no business being attractive and yet -

“People like that over there too, huh?” you ask out of curiosity, and he nods slowly.

“Starting to think this place isn’t too different from the Cape.”

“Aw, I can see why you miss it so much...” Another thing you have in common; you both happen to share a resounding hatred for where you’re from. The sarcastic remark draws his attention, fixing you with a stare so amused you actually wish he wasn’t wearing sunglasses, simply to see the sharpness of his blue eyes.

“And I, uh.. I wouldn’t leave you like that.” He speaks slower now, enunciating his words as if it might almost pain him to admit, and eventually he looks away. “I’m actually - enjoying myself. With you. Today. And I don’t feel like pretending.”

His phrasing sprouts about a dozen or so other questions at once, spurring sudden whiplash in your mind. Interest piques to the point you have to forcibly temper the urge to press him for more, likely to ruin the moment altogether. And in any case, more importantly, lies the admitted sentiment. It's, dare you say, heartwarming. Surprising.

But you also know that if you acknowledge it aloud, he’ll tell you to fuck off.

You smile at your plate instead. There’s just the one claw left now. It’s your favorite part, one you would normally savor, except you realize you’ve been slowly picking it apart with your fingers into little tiny unrecognizable pieces, distracted.

“I wasn’t gonna let you wander off with them anyway. So.”

“Is that right,” Jake asks, and you glance up at him again just to find he casts down an unnaturally bright smile. He’s teasing you. “Feeling jealous?”

“Terribly,” you drawl, but the feigned glare hardly sticks once you can hear him chuckling. “No, I just - I guess I fucking hope that’s not your type, but either way I could tell exactly what they wanted from you. And I didn’t. Want that, I mean.”

“You were protecting me.” Jake muses, and a retort is ready at your teeth that he requires no such protection. But then the fleeting image of a certain tall blond floats to mind like an old bad dream, and you have to stomp it down before it can rise to the surface. Focus instead on quelling the angst that worries at your food. At the more pleasant low timbre of Jake’s voice, not quite done talking. You realize he’s in the middle of a thought you’ve missed the first half of only to catch the tail end. “So why haven’t we?”

“Haven’t what?” you ask cluelessly, in the midst of losing said stress to several healthy swigs of some Long Island pale ale.

“Why haven’t we had sex?”

It’s asked so casually, so passive and without hesitation that you choke mid-gulp. There’s a split second of panic, a flashing image of splattering beer all over yourself, and somehow you force yourself to swallow. Nothing more than a few dribbles pass the corners of your lips, and you smear them away with the back of a shaky hand.

“Fuck, Jake,” you wheeze.

Jake doesn’t laugh at you, not out loud anyway. But there is a noticeable bounce to his shoulders. “Cool. If that’s the term you prefer. Why haven’t we fucked?”

The glare you send him this time is real, even if it’s less impactful over the rim of your cup. You chug the rest of its contents to ease away the scratchy rasp in your throat. It’s not like you’ve never discussed sexual things with him before, being friends for a time and well - him being him, it’s sort of inevitable. It’s just never been directed toward you, or rather, the two of you together. To the point where on more than one occasion, you’ve been referred to as the girl he ‘skipped’. Equally frustrating and weirdly resonating inadequacy when you feel -

Nope. Not doing that. You slam the empty cup on the table and take the first normal, deep breath you’ve had in recent minutes.

“You’re not available,” you finally tell him.

“I’m not,” he says, clearly disagreeing.

“Not in the way I need.”

He hums in consideration. “The way you need… That’s what - emotions? Romantic shit? How stimulating.”

Also exactly the opposite of how he maneuvers through his own entanglements, and so begs the question how it could possibly pertain to you - if that really is something he’s contemplated before. You cock your head at him, absolutely mystified while he’s predictably nonplussed. He drops his plate next to your empty cup, bare to the bones, before gathering the collective trash, and climbs off the picnic table to toss it away. And when he returns, it’s with an outstretched hand, beckoning.

“Let’s go. We can’t leave until I win you something.”

The irony of the situation is not lost on you as you take it, and once again let him pull you along.

As it happens, Jake was not kidding when it came to being good at carnival games.

It starts at the bottle toss booth, a simple enough concept that when he wins the first round on a single throw, you assume it’s a fluke. But then there’s the second round, and the third, and a fourth for (showing off) good measure - and each time without fail, Jake knocks out every bottle on the first throw. He moves on to balloon darts after that and to your (and the booth operator’s) astonishment, Jake is an image of poise, sipping his beer while popping any balloon he aims at.

“What.. the fuck?” is all you can say as you watch in awe. Of course, you’ve done miserably; haven’t landed any darts, and you could barely even keep up with the bottle toss. But Jake simply looks pleased with himself, providing no explanation to this hidden corner of his personality. Instead, he peruses over the strung up stuffed animals that make up his winnings.

“Which one do you want?” he asks. When you have a hard time finding your voice to answer, he picks out an oversized teddy bear and shoves it into your arms. And for a moment, he doesn’t quite let go. He blinks down at you and you curse the removal of his sunglasses, something about concentration. The icy blue practically glitters beneath the multicolored flashing lights of festival attractions, and all you can do is stand there, dumbly transfixed.

A slow smile overtakes him. “Next loser buys the drinks.”

Another series of wins follow in quick succession. You take turns at a variety of shooter games which, lucky for you, requires slightly less skill. Jake may still get first place, but it’s you who shouts in triumph when you don’t come dead last in a water gun race.

The classic ring toss is the only obstacle that gives him a challenge. A few dollars spent gets a large bucket of little discs that have technically been made to fit around the mouth of a liter sized bottle, but they never quite stick the landing. Jake insists the strategy is all in how it’s thrown, and though he has his own handful of misfires, eventually he smoothly tosses the rings like he would skipping rocks and lands several back to back.

It’s impressive enough to warrant some cheers from onlookers; other players who are about as successful as you in their attempts. All the while, Jake’s gloating is a quiet kind; he tilts his head and bats his eyelashes at you, and frankly you’re too astonished to mind.

“You’re like, amazing,” you tell him.

He straightens immediately like he’s been pinched, and the rosy blemish that suddenly warms his cheeks is all the smug victory you need.

What started simply with just a teddy bear turns into a giraffe with cartoonishly wide plastic eyes. Then a big blue shark with felt teeth, and finally largest of all, a neon green snake with a frilly pink tongue. It's so long, it curls over Jake’s shoulders and still almost brushes the ground while he waits for you to return from the bathroom.

It’s a sight you have to pause and photograph to memory; notoriously moody, scowling Jake wrangling cute stuffed animals in a chokehold while he smokes a cigarette. You try to keep from laughing but the alcohol in your system does nothing to help. You’re not completely toasted, no, but the buzz in your veins keeps your face flushed, and you cannot stop smiling as you make your way back to him.

The pair of you had lost complete track of time while the afternoon lost itself to twilight, and the Sound now reflects the glowing blues and purples of the sky. Nearby, the school buses are still on their rotation. Families climb on board with their children to depart for things like dinner. Most of the food vendors have closed out for the day, save for the typical carnival fare - soft pretzels, popcorn, corn dogs and such - but the Bay stays thrumming as the crowd shifts into the rowdiness of nightlife activities.

Jake rolls his eyes when he catches you staring. “Having fun?”

“Oh, yes,” you emphasize. “Not as much as you, though, huh?” The next bout of laughter becomes an oof! in a gust of air as he thrusts the stuffed animals at you so fast you have to keep from dropping them. Lastly is the snake, even though it suits him. He thoughtfully pulls your hair aside before tucking it around your neck. “S’that some sort’a Cape boy persona you keep locked up in hiding?” Hands full, you pucker your lips at him expectantly.

“Somethin’ like that,” he admits. He holds the lit cigarette to your mouth and you gratefully pull a drag or two off of it. The tips of his fingers graze your lips, and his eyes flit toward the light touch. “I was.. Kind of a shithead kid back then. In a pack of other shitheads. We’d steal beer, get drunk off a forty. There was the county fair, or the harbor. Turns out I liked throwing things.”

It’s a rare detail of his adolescence you’ve never heard before, and you’re cradling a stack of stuffed animals.

“What about you?”

“I sucked.”

“Wasn’t gonna hold that against you. Makes me look better.”

“I, uh, I would try to find out how much funnel cake I could eat before riding the Zipper without throwing up.”

Jake hums with delight, brows almost disappearing into his hairline. “We could go try that right now.”

“I did actually. Get thrown up on. By my friend. People could see it from the outside, it was - we don’t have to.”

For the first time today, Jake laughs. It’s boisterous and at a higher pitch than one could expect, and you love it even if it’s caused by the image of you covered in vomit. It makes a small part of you not want the day to end; this pocket of time where it’s just you, and not the stifled air and bull shit drama of the restaurant. But there’s still the trek back to the city, a bus and a train to catch, and at the thought of it small ounce of dread fills your stomach because fuck -

The LIRR is packed.

You should’ve predicted as much; it’s not only the Long Island residents that need to get home, but it’s been a minute since you made such a commute, after an event no less, to have considered its capacity. The train has already left the station, streaks through the county with a steady rock and the occasional flicker of the overhead lights, by the time you manage to find a seat after an off-balance weave through train cars - a lone three seater among a sea of loud passengers.

There’s a large group of rowdy boys, college kids from the looks of it, clearly drunk and a fraction of whom are dressed in matching football jerseys. They shout back and forth at each other across the aisles and over the heads of the girls who sit among them. They make a show of snapping at them to quiet down to no avail; ultimately as uninhibited and shrill as the boys are. And music plays from an unknown source, overpowering the volume of the overhead speakers. There’s only one other quiet pair; two women who share a set of earbuds to watch a cellphone streaming from their laps.

Jake props his boot atop the armrest in front of him the moment you both sit down, a force of habit to prevent anyone else from sitting with you. He receives the odd dirty look from stragglers passing by looking for a seat, only to slouch and nestle into your side in petty retaliation. It’s oddly satisfying, like you can hold onto the illusion of being alone with him just a little longer.

But they keep shuffling through, and a dirty look evolves into an ahem and an eyeroll, and someone even pauses a second too long, and Jake takes it a step further. You were content to feign ignorance, staring out the window while the exchanges played out, but suddenly he’s dragging your arm over his shoulders. He angles toward you, a warm hand slipping around the curve of your thigh, and then his mouth finds the crook of your neck. Your breath hitches as it tucks itself there, trailing feather light kisses along your skin.

There’s an audible “Oh, whatever,” and receding footsteps and you can feel him smile into your pulse point.

“Is that totally necessary?”

“Mhm.” He withdraws but doesn’t go far. Merely tilts his head back, shifting within the circle of your arm until you’re perfectly level with each other. It’s intoxicatingly close; the tip of his straight nose a hair’s breadth away, his eyelashes a dark blur over his cheeks. You can smell him this close. The smokiness of cologne or body wash, and a hint perhaps of something sweet like shampoo. “I don’t wanna share. And your furry little friends weren’t doing the trick.”

“And kissing me was your call to action, huh?”

He shrugs noncommittally. “Proved effective. Unless they happened to be into watching random strangers fool around. Not that I mind, but -”

“Oh, is that what we’re doing?” you ask dryly.

“I could be. Open to that.” He licks his lips and you gaze steadily back, trying (with futile effort) not to fluster as he smirks. Acutely aware of the hand on your thigh, how his thumb strokes absentmindedly along the inseam of your jeans, stoking something inside that’s growing harder to ignore. “Wouldn’t be the first time.”

You scoff, momentarily relieved with the urge to laugh. “If this is about the damn disco again -”

“Actually I was thinking of that time in the walk-in.”

“.. Ah, yeah. That.” As it turns out, mishaps of the past don’t exclusively refer to isolated incidents. You just refuse to dwell on those moments, knowing they’ll never amount to more than just having fun for Jake. Not that there’s anything wrong with that - your heart skips a beat from simply recalling the memory. But feelings.. Complicate things.

You’re not going to dwell on that now, either, though. Not when there is little subtlety in the way you both inch closer together. Not when you can feel his breath on your lips. Jake’s head tilts, the bridge of his nose brushes along yours. Attraction thuds in your veins to the point that it’s a chore to find your own voice. “So, what you’re saying is, you’ve become one of my bad habits.”

He makes a noise of amusement, closing what minute space is left between you. “It doesn’t have to be bad.”

“I said - tickets, please.”

The conductor’s voice jolts you like being snapped out of a trance. It’s a rude awakening - both the intrusion itself, and the jarring transition back into reality. It’s no wonder neither of you heard the first request. Now an actual football is being lobbed around the train car. A chorus of voices sing along to the music blasting, competing with the echoes of multiple conversations occurring at once. Has it been this loud the whole time?

You disentangle from Jake who appears mostly unbothered but for the slightest of sulks as he reorients himself. He pats around his pockets until fishing out two train tickets from his jacket, then hands them over to the conductor. You watch the scene unfold, baffled. It’s quite possibly the most mundane fucking thing that could be happening right now.

Once the conductor moves on to the next row, you coo sweetly at Jake. “Aw, hon, thanks again for the ticket.”

“Shut up,” he grumbles, then reassumes the position as if the moment had been merely paused. He reaches for you, slipping a hand around the back of your neck, his thumb teasing along your earlobe, and even if it weren’t for the way his mouth seals seamlessly over yours, you’d still be melting instantly.

You release a trembling sigh, eyelids fluttering closed at the feel of him yielding as the kiss deepens. Jake’s lips part over yours and you open for him immediately, groaning helplessly when he licks into your mouth. The remnants of cheap beer and cigarettes evaporate into something entirely, pleasantly him. The headiness of his spit, the furl of his tongue. It’s dizzying, and arousing. Your surroundings fade back into white noise yet adrenaline surges through your limbs, leaving you to clutch at him desperately. Seeking purchase in the fabric of his shirt, a sleeve of his jacket, anything you can reach, and one can only assume he warms to the notion from the way his body gives.

He surges even further into you, pressing you as far back as you can go without meeting resistance, and just as you worry the twist of your spine to accommodate might grow tiresome, a series of long dragged out squeaks wheezes from the nondescript pile at your backside.

“Not quite the response I was looking for,” Jake murmurs between kisses. “Gonna make me regret winning those for you, huh?”

“Not on your life,” you retort, voice a breathless thing. You gaze up at him, swallowing hard at the sight of him like this; pupils dilated, darkening the shade of his eyes with dramatic effect when the lights flicker again. You graze your fingertips over his lips, spit-slick and swollen, then smile and try to tease with - “Think I might just name one after you-”

The thought is abruptly cut short when his mouth descends upon yours once more. His thumb presses into the hinge of your jaw, tongue slipping greedily along yours the moment you part for him. Hungrier this time, as if each interruption only makes him more impatient. His hands quickly trade places; one cups the back of your head, keeping you stubbornly in place as he steals the air from your lungs. While the other threads down the scope of your torso, breezes over your hip and maneuvers beneath your legs and - the comfort is an instant relief when he pulls them over his lap.

It gives him freer reign this way. You arch into his touch as his fingers slip beneath the hem of your shirt, and he breaks the kiss with gasping breaths. Seeks reprieve in the curve of your jaw. Not remotely dwelling on the wanton display that anyone could simply look over the edge of their seat only to witness him finding the sensitive spot of your throat where his lips pucker and suck, the noises he makes shooting sparks of pleasure deep in your belly.

“Jake,” you warn through clenched teeth. It’s not so much that you want him to stop - quite the opposite while you try to resist writhing over his lap. It just might make for a small problem while you’re on a fucking train.

But he makes a disapproving sound, something like a huff in your ear, then sharply nips something fierce around your skin. You lurch despite your efforts, let slip a strangled moan. Then he soothes the mark with the heated drag of his tongue, and you’re melting all over again, whimpering as his breath raises goosebumps along the trail of saliva.

“Just like that.” His voice is breathy, muffled as he kisses his way back up the line of your jaw. “Is that what you like?”

Fuck, you want him. Little thought is spared on anything but him as his hands never quite stop moving, from grazing your bare rib cage to grabbing your ass. Your needy fingertips card through the black mess of his hair, tearing him back to your mouth, and Jake fulfills. Kissing you hard and slow. Growing bolder as he feels you squirm for any semblance of relief. His touch slips down your belly, curls along the zipper of your jeans. And when his hand sinks between your thighs, the last fleeting, coherent thought you do have is that at least no one will be able to hear a single sound you make.

A transfer at Jamaica and a subway ride later finally sees you back to familiar streets. It's well into the evening now, the cityscape lit up with its typical bright neon glow. It floods the sidewalks while you walk, milling through an altogether different type of crowd as you make way for the restaurant.

It’s almost inevitable, winding up there every night. Regardless of the complaining, the more-often-than-not haughty guests, Howard managing with his quirks, the restaurant remains a single constant for most of the staff, and even on a rare day off, you still come crawling back to its doorstep.

The sight of its stoop on the street corner, well lit beneath its overpriced lanterns, makes it almost seem like a typical Sunday. The main difference being that your arrival isn’t usually accompanied by an armful of stuffed animals. Nor do you make a habit of reporting to work while painfully horny. The walk has done you some good in that respect; it feels like you’ve been properly, thoroughly edged.

The ride on the train took a turn you.. weren’t expecting - though it certainly made for a way to pass the time. It’s as if you can still feel Jake’s lips on yours, still taste a remnant of him. Like the very scent of him has buried itself somewhere deep inside your lungs. The aforementioned makeout sessions do not hold a candle to what has just occurred, as mostly over the clothes as it was. Voyeurism isn’t really your thing, and though you wouldn’t hold it past Jake to be up to task, it was the closest you’ve toed a line in that territory, and you feel - you feel. That cliche spark, that flutter in your chest as powerful as the ache of arousal in your belly.

It wasn’t just the kissing, either. It was the heavy petting, it was the talking in between. Telling Jake about your first broken bone, learning how he split his chin open skateboarding when he was a teenager - still has the scar that’s hidden by the usual scruff of his facial hair. You wonder if he feels it, too. Felt anything at all or if it was just having fun, which, to reaffirm to your current overthinking state of mind, is still okay.

You chance a glance at him walking beside you, his own expression unreadable as ever as he smokes another cigarette. Just moments ago, his lips were kissed swollen. His pale skin heated with a flush that ran low beneath the collar of his shirt. And now, the only remnant left behind is the muss of his hair.

But the restaurant inches closer. Service is over by now. The both of you could walk inside, join those partaking in shift drinks, wind up at a bar later, then go your separate ways. Or you could.. ask for more. See if there is an ounce of weight to what he brought up earlier. His pace slows short of making it to the entrance, intent to finish his cigarette, and now is as good a time as any.

“Hey, so -” you suddenly remember the stuffed animals cradled in your arm, and for the second time tonight feel a little foolish. But there’s still some liquid courage left in you yet. Some bolstered confidence from the days’ events.

“So, I know we’ll probably go for drinks and whatnot, but later…” You’re stood between him and the building and Jake steps closer; whether to shield you both from passerby or impose with his body some more is unclear as his gazes sharpens, pinned on you while a plume of smoke cascades from his nostrils, and he raises a questioning brow. God, you are so fucking fucked but you’re smiling and shaking your head as you finish your thought. “Later, maybe you’d wanna come back to my place?”

There’s the slightest lift to the corner of his lips. His head tilts back in appraisal.

“Okay.”

You blink rapidly. “Okay?”

“Yes,” he enunciates with a little more gumption, appearing amused. Definitely imposing now as he moves even closer until you are nose to chest. “I’d like that. But, uh.. You should know.” He dips his head as if to kiss you again, and quite honestly, you’re not sure if you can remain standing if he does. “I’m unavailable.”

A snort of laughter erupts from your throat, and even as he leans in, you can’t resist a roll of your eyes before they flutter closed and -

The front door of the restaurant bursts open and the moment is quickly lost to a series of recognizable voices: Ari, Sasha, Heather and Will. Scott with a few guys from the kitchen. All talking a mile a minute as they file down the stairs and swarm over the sidewalk.

It’s Scott that notices you first. “Hey, look who finally decided to show up. Lookin’ like a bunch’a fuckin’ dorks.” He purposely knocks his shoulder into Jake’s as he strides past, tossing a vague gesture behind him. “C’mon, shitheads, I’m fuckin’ hungry!”

“Ooh, what’s this?” Sasha tugs at the snake and drapes it around himself like a feathered boa before striking a pose. “I’m keeping this one.”

“No fuckin’ way!” you snap, just as Ari plucks the shark from your grasp.

“I thought you were going to an oyster festival,” she drawls, inspecting the toy. “Didn’t think that meant a carnival, too. I’m working my ass off all day..”

“Okay, just don’t drop them please? Jake won them for me.” You immediately regret your choice of words as they come to a complete halt.

“Jake did what now?” Ari asks, her eyes - along with Sasha’s and Heather’s - flicker up at him in genuine shock. Will merely chuckles as he passes, trailing after Scott and the crew.

Jake’s face stretches with a dry smile. “Fuck off, Ari.”

“Y’know for someone who doesn’t date, you’re awfully fucking good at it.”

“Jake? Good at dating? Now that’s one I’ve never heard before.”

So occupied by the current company, you had taken no notice of Simone’s approach. She’s out of her stripes, donned in her well maintained image of class. An expensive knit sweater, pressed pants. Her signature red lipstick is freshly applied, and her long blond locks are left to cascade softly across her shoulders.

She looks you up and down as she draws near, taking in your appearance but not quite meeting your eye before looking coolly at Jake. “You didn’t tell me this was a date.”

Her tone is coy enough, but not a single one of you is under the false impression that there isn’t more underlying to what she says. Sasha makes a comment under his breath and Heather quickly jabs an elbow into his side to quiet him.

“They’re just teasing, Simone.” You snatch the shark back from Ari, feeling annoyed. Like you’re being scolded by a school teacher when you haven’t done anything wrong. “It wasn’t a date, we just had -”

“I’m glad you two had a good time,” she finishes for you, and when her gaze finally meets yours, it’s like this conversation has somehow escalated into a standoff, and each bystander lights up a cigarette during the tense pause.

Eventually, Simone flicks her hair. “Impeccable timing, Jake... Walk me home?”

Fuck. You hate the way your stomach plummets at that.

You look up at him, clinging to some notion that he’ll deny her just this once, that he has felt something, that he wants to see the rest of the night through. That he wants - you.

But at the very moment you see his face, you know that’s not happening. For a second, he looks back at you, mouth hanging open around unspoken words. And when Simone calls his name again, you watch him shut down completely.

“Sure,” he intones.

“Alright, c’mon babygirl.” Sasha grasps you by the arm in effort to tug you away. Follow after Will and Scott who’ve likely made it a couple of blocks down the road by now.

You falter on the first step as if you’d been glued to the spot, stubbornly staring at Jake, trying desperately to swallow around the sting of disappointment and rejection so it’s not plain for him - or anyone else - to see.

You think you manage to tell Jake ‘goodnight’, but then your back is turned on him and you let Sasha steer you away with the girls.

The three of them link arms with you tucked somewhere in between. It’s apparent you’ve done well steeling yourself; there’s a bounce to their steps as they carry on as before, talking one over the other with no regard to whatever the fuck it was that just occurred. Onward to what you can only hope is a repeat of last night, with little left over to remember come morning.

#fic rec #jake sweetbitter #jake sweetbitter fic

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salt-is-a-terrible-currency · 9 months

Text

Zealot

Written for day 26 of the Narcos fandom smut alphabet over on @narcosfandomdiscord

Fandom: Narcos, Deadpool movieverse

Rating: Explicit, 18+

Words: 3 991 (this one really got a life of its own)

Pairing: Javier x f!reader, Nathan 'Cable' Summers x f!reader

Prompt: zeal

Warnings: verbal fight, threats of gun violence, one night stand, rough sex, biting, some dirty talk, makeup sex

Tagging: @futurewife

It's the last prompt and I figured go big or go home. Then this monstrosity happened.

"Fuck you," you snap. Javier's face twitches but he doesn't respond, instead leaning back against the wall out on your patio for a second before finally nodding. You follow him back inside the house, past the kitchen that’s still a mess from your dinner that he interrupted by inviting himself over, and into the hallway where he grabs his jacket and shrugs it on. As he steps outside, you decide to get another kick in for good measure:

"Show up at my house again and I'll shoot you," you say, then slam the door shut in his face.

⁂

You already know you look good, especially tonight, but the reactions you get when stepping into the bar less than 24 hours after your blow-up with Javier is still an ego boost you sorely needed. A group of regulars throw glances in your direction, one of them even leaning out of his seat to get a better look at you as you saunter past and head for the row of high chairs facing the desk. With a glass of overly sweet wine in your hand, you glance around the bar. There’s no lack of men here tonight, though most of them you cross off the list immediately. Some of them for being married, and others for being old enough to be your grandfather. You order a second glass of wine and return to weighing your options.

Just as you’re considering who to sidle up to - Benicio Moreno or Marcus Ruiz - a figure appears in the open door. He’s in heavy boots, some sort of utility pants with countless pockets and a thick belt, a gray t-shirt fitted so snugly that if the temperature were to drop by even a few degrees you’re certain you’d be able to see his nipples. You bite back a giggle at the thought. Thick arms- the left one with marred and partially tattooed skin - and a buzzcut in need of a touch-up. A few heads turn the man’s way as he enters but nothing like when you did. You feel like you’ve hit the jackpot. The stranger’s from out of town, he has to be, and there’s barely any women at the bar tonight. You wait for him to pull out another chair, two seats to your right, and listen as he places his order in a gruff voice. It’s unladylike to be desperate, your mother and grandmother both told you as much, so you sip your wine and pretend not to notice his presence. Five more seconds, you think to yourself as you down the last of your second glass, then I’ll introduce my-

"What are you having?" A gruff voice interrupts. You jump, startled to find that the man has shifted to the seat next to you.

"White wine," you answer, quickly recovering to flash a smile at him. They only have the one kind and it's not very good, but it's cheap and it does the job. Now that the man’s up close, you get a better look at him. He’s got a sharp jaw with a hint of stubble on it, a faint scar at the back of his right cheek and…and, you realize, there’s something about his left eye. Like it’s a different shade from his right. Not different enough to be blatantly obvious but here, up close, you can tell they’re not identical. He flags the bartender down to refill your glass and you raise it to his in a silent toast.

"What's your name, stranger?" you ask. He leans forward on the desk, face turned to you.

"I'm Nathan." Now that you’re not startled by him speaking, the sound of his voice goes straight to your core. It’s a voice you can imagine growling praise as you suck his soul out through his dick. You uncross your legs and lean forward a little.

"You new to town, Nathan?" You’re pretty damn sure of the answer but it doesn’t hurt to double-check. It’s just a glance but you catch it: his eyes dropping to your cleavage before meeting your gaze again.

"I've been to the area before, but not Laredo,” he explains. “Got hired for a job, finished early so I figured I'd take a night of rest before starting the drive back." You don’t realize how much the wine has affected you until you hear yourself answer him:

"Well, Nathan, I have to tell you I don't foresee your night being very restful." What the hell did I just say? Nathan, to your relief, doesn’t take offense. He chuckles, low and raspy, then leans in close to your ear. You’re already feeling faint and when his hand lands at your thigh your eyes flutter shut.

"Your place or mine?" he asks.

⁂

The way his lips move against you is a complete opposite compared to Javier’s.

Nathan tears the dress from your body. It joins his discarded pants and t-shirt at the threshold to your bedroom. He falls back against the headboard, pulls you on top of him with your back to his scarred and tattooed chest, then reaches under the backs of your thighs so that your legs bend at the knee.

“Go on, sweetheart” he says, nipping at your jawline, “Get me inside you.” He knows you’re wet enough to take him, ran his fingers along the seat of your soaked panties while you were fumbling to unlock the front door. You do as he says, wrapping your fingers around his cock and taking note of how he growls as you notch him to your opening. With a shift of your hips, he disappears into you. He gives you but a split second to adjust before he moves. Your whole body jolts as Nathan pounds into you, making sure you can feel every last bit of him. Every curve and dip, down to the last vein of his cock. His hands grasp your legs in a vice-like grip. His hot breath at the back of your head sends chills through your body. A stark contrast to your skin which feels on fire, sweat running down your brow and stinging your eyes. Your breathing coming out in bursts with each punch of his cock into your cunt. The way he works your body has you trembling, the first whispers of your climax building in your core like a knot winding itself tighter and tighter. When it bursts, your back arches and you sob his name like it’s a prayer. Nathan doesn’t let up.

“Gorgeous girl,” he drawls, “The things I’ll do to you.” He slams into you another one, two, three times before tensing like bowstring and snarling like a beast unhinged. His hands keep you there as rope after rope of cum gushes into you. You feel dizzy, teetering on the edge of a giggle.

Nathan releases your legs and you tip back against his broad, sweaty chest. His lips press to yours in a hungry kiss which you blindly reciprocate, little sparks of electricity still running along your skin from just the memory of his cock inside you. You whine as his lips disappear but soon something else taps against your mouth. You open your eyes, finding two fingers held in front of you.

“Suck them,” he commands, bumping the tips against your lips, “Want you to get them wet like they’d been in that tight little pussy of yours.” You find his darkened eyes, see the lust in them. Feeling devious, you take only the tips of his fingers into your mouth and bite. Not enough to draw blood but enough that he hisses a curse under his breath. You turn to face him, getting on your hands and knees. Nathan’s chest reverberates with a growl.

“What’re you playing at, sweetheart?” Inching closer, you bite your lower lip at him. He’s still got his fingers up and you stick your tongue out, licking where previously you nipped.

“I’m not playing at anything,” you say innocently. Nathan’s lips twist into a grin. You take his fingers as deep as you can, stopping just short of gagging, and seal your lips tightly around them to give one long, firm suck. A slight tickle at your shoulder tells you that he’s letting his free hand wander. It brushes across your collarbones, lightly presses at the hollow of your throat, then slides down to cup your breast. Gentle at first, then harder as you withdraw from his fingers - a string of saliva prolonging the contact between you.

“That wet enough?” you ask, again feigning innocence. His face twists into something animalistic, and as it does he twists your nipple. You whine, equal parts pain and pleasure coursing through you.

“On your back, sweetheart.” His tattooed arm wraps around you, helps guide you through the abrupt change in position, while he uses the other to prop himself up. Your back hits the mattress, a cold spot beneath your buttcheek that must be from where his cum has leaked out of your throbbing cunt. Nathan’s scruff chafes your chin as he pries your lips apart with his tongue, licking at the roof of your mouth until your mind is buzzing with nothing but thoughts of how it would feel to have him to that between your legs. As if he’s read your thoughts, Nathan retreats from your lips. He crawls down the length of you, kissing down your chest, lingering briefly at your sensitive breasts before moving down to your belly button where he also presses his lips. His mouth is hot on your skin, forcing your already unsteady breathing into nothing but shallow rasps of air. He pauses as he reaches the spot between your parted legs. You can only see the top of his head, his eyes turned to your exposed sex. Then you feel it. His tongue moving along your seam in methodical, determined movements. You cry out, your hips jolting up only for his hands to grab and press you back down so that he can continue without interruptions. Even though the room is practically a sauna at this point, even though your skin feels on fire, you shiver at the feeling of his mouth on your cunt. He brings a hand up, spreading your folds open for his tongue to push inside.

“Nate…” you rasp. He hums into you at the same as his thumb swipes across your aching clit and again you try to buck up against him but again he stops you. His hand cracks against the inside of your thigh, setting off another ripple of heat between your legs, and you take the slap for the warning it is. Determined to stay put, you reach down to his shoulders and hold on. Just the feel of his muscles rippling beneath your hands is enough to make your eyes roll back in your head. His hand finds its way back between your legs to continue the ministrations. There’s nothing soft about how he circles it, but neither is he adding enough pressure for you to cum. Your nails dig ever deeper into his skin with each thrust of his tongue, certain that he’ll have marks in the morning to match the deep bruises from his tight grip on your hips, and at the moment you couldn’t care less. Nathan pulls back, the loss of his tongue inside you leaving empty and aching. But only for a brief moment. He seals his lips around your clit, hands on your inner thighs keep you spread wide, and sucks. The orgasm comes seemingly out of nowhere, your whole body tensing and then relaxing in an instant as wave after wave of bone-melting heat overtakes you. You feel like you’re floating, like you can see stars.

From the corner of your eye, you see Nathan rise onto his knees and wipe his mouth. Then he disappears from view but the shift of the mattress and his heavy groan tells you that he’s laid down next to you. Mind and body still buzzing, you scoot closer until you’re skin to skin and seek him out with a kiss on his shoulder. He meets you in one, lips to lips, but when he tries for a second you slip further down his body to instead suck at the spot where his tattooed pec transitions into unmarked skin. He tastes of salt and cigarette smoke. You go even lower, finding his happy trail and burying your nose in it while smothering a giggle. A kiss to his left hipbone, then to his right, and you find yourself face to face with his once again erect cock. You peer up at Nathan, bat your eyelashes.

“Want to have a taste, sweetheart?” he asks, thrusting forward to let the reddened tip of his cock brush against your lips. You smile at him, dazed, and let your jaws fall open in invitation. He chuckles darkly, runs his cock along your lower lip. You surge forward, taking him in your mouth and squeezing him at the root with your fist like you’ve noticed many men enjoy. Based on the obscene moan that escapes him, Nathan is no different. You begin to bob along his length, coating him with as much saliva as you can - in addition to your own slick still clinging to him from before - to ease your way and keeping your fist tightly locked around the base of him. When he shifts his hips, you dig the nails of your left hand into his thigh. Warning him like he did you. He huffs but his hips do sink back against the mattress and you smile around his length. Another couple of bobs and you pull back for a breath of air, sliding your fist right below the head and rubbing the slit in it with the pad of your thumb.

“Nate,” you coo at him. “Need you to fuck my throat.” Immediately, work hardened fingers move down and grasp at the back of your head to keep you still, your head in the right angle, as he begins to thrust savagely into you. The first stroke is enough to make you gag, saliva running from the corners of your mouth and staining the bedlinen even further. With each thrust, your nose hits the bush of dark hair between his legs. You gag and sputter, legs trembling with the effort not to choke around him. It’s a lot, and at the same time there’s nothing like the kick you get from hearing Nathan’s pained groans as he fucks into you. When he tenses, the back and forth motion of his hips ceasing, you press forward from your current position at his tip and once more bury your face in the dark patch of hair - nuzzling it for good measure. Nathan gives up an inhuman sound. He floods your mouth, the taste of salt erupting at the back of your tongue. His short-trimmed nails scrape over your skull. Not holding you there anymore, just touching. When you’re content that there’s no more to receive, you pull away with a wet sound and crawl further up into bed to once again face him. Nathan flashes a lopsided grin.

“I don’t know which idiot pissed you off and made you go to the bar tonight,” he says, “but his stupidity is my luck.”

⁂

You ogle Nathan as he pulls his jacket back on in your hallway, the scent of your soap clinging to his skin. ‘I smell like a girl’, he gruffed and you replied, cheek-in-tongue: ‘Yeah, you do. Because you slept with one’. He chuckled at that. You open the door, go to walk him to his car but stop in your tracks at the sight of something unexpected. Someone unexpected. Javier is walking up your driveway, hands in his pockets and looking every bit as stone faced as last time you saw him. First, you’re shocked. Then, you’re pissed. You cross your arms over your chest.

“What are you doing here?” you demand. Javier, catching onto the fact that you’re outside,

lifts his gaze to you, goes to speak but stops. Stares. Right past your shoulder. Next to you, Nathan steps into the late morning sun. He too stops as he notices the new arrival and the tension in the air.

"This your husband or something?" he asks you, brow furrowed.

"No,” you say loudly, “this is a piece of shit who I told never to show up at my doorstep again." Javier’s whole face scrunches up in that way it does when you know he’s trying very hard not to say something he’ll regret. After a beat of silence, his gaze flits from you to Nathan.

"Do you mind giving us a moment?" Javier asks. Your eyebrows jump up at that. You hadn’t expected something so polite from him. Nathan turns to you.

"He's not going to hit you or some shit, is he?" You shake your head. Even if Javier ever got the idea of laying hands on you, you’re close enough with his dad that you’re confident the younger Peña would regret it for the rest of his life. Nathan throws his hands up.

"Alright then, I'm leaving," he announces, before turning to you and - with a grin - adding: “I had fun.” You return the smirk but say nothing. No sooner has Nathan closed the car door than Javier is striding toward you, arms crossed.

“What was that about, hm?” he demands as Nathan pulls out of the driveway. Guess the politeness was just for show. You sigh.

“I told you to fuck off, Javier.” You turn and head back inside, Javier hot on your heels.

“I’m sorry,” he says, pulling the door closed behind him. “Alright? I’m sorry I said your job doesn’t matter.” You stop, turn to face him. Now that he’s up close you can tell he looks like shit. There’s bags under his eyes, hair more ruffled than usual, and he reeks of cigarettes. He told you he’d quit last month. Something within you melts at the state of him. Javier sighs.

“I’d had a shit week and when you blew me off to work late I got upset,” he explains. “Shouldn’t have taken it out on you.” You mull over his apology. It’s not like the two of you are in a relationship, both of you are free to sleep with whoever, though more often than not you turn to each other for sex. You know he’s seen others when you were out of town, just like you’ve seen others. It’s just because you know each other, are comfortable with each other’s preferences in bed and confident in the fact that you’ll have a good time together.

“I’m not your girlfriend, Javi, you can’t demand my time like that again. And you certainly can’t get upset about me sleeping with someone else when I know for a fact you fucked Marianne Jamison last month when I was visiting family.” His face twitches.

“I know,” he says. “I was an asshole and I’ll make it up to you.” The last bit of anger melts away and you let your arms fall back to your sides.

“When?” you ask. Javier’s face changes, from the beaten down look into something you’re more used to seeing. Hunger. He doesn’t waste any time before he presses his mouth to yours. His kiss is dominating, showing you who is in control this time. And when he presses his tongue past the seam of your lips, your whole body melts to him like an ice cream cone in the Texas sun, readily submitting to him. There’s that buzz in your head again. And with it the feeling of pleasant warmth gathering between your legs. You barely realize that he’s moving you until your backside hits something and your eyes fly open, finding yourself in the kitchen with your back against the edge of the counter. Javier’s lips move lower, seeking out the mounds of your breasts. His fingers hook into the front of your tanktop, tugging at it to expose more for him to mouth at. Switching between gentle kisses and urgent sucking, it doesn’t take long before your nipples are practically aching from the ministrations. His hands seem to be covering every part of your body, all at once. His touch feels hot even with your tanktop and flimsy shorts preventing him from going fully skin to skin. He’s so fucking clever with his hands, the slightest touch of those rough fingers enough to stir the desire in the pit of your belly. He’s taken the time to learn how to get your body to respond to him, how to coax a climax out of you. It was one of the things you first fell for. Not in a romantic way, but in a way that made you feel safe. Lots of guys would’ve been happy to get their fill and then leave. Not Javier. For him, your pleasure is as important as his own and when he discovered how you reacted to a press, a brush, a pinch he took note. He’s a zealot, the map to your pleasure his manifesto, his sacred text. The sparks left behind by each kiss, each touch, sends waves of joy running down your spine. You reach out to palm his bulge, feel him twitch beneath your hand. He pulls your shorts down, finds you bare beneath them. As well as the bruises left behind by Nathan. For a moment, Javier stills. You hold your breath, waiting for him to come back to the present. Javier shakes his head, growls. Then he surges forward, covering the bruised with his own hands and grinding his still denim clad bulge against your exposed core. The texture of it makes it almost painful, but only almost. You try to ride against the seam, try to get yourself off before he can decide that he wants to drag things out. Just as you think you’re reaching that peak, Javier’s hands lock around your forearms.

“Turn for me,” he orders. With a whimper, you do as you’re told. To your surprise, Javier wastes no more time teasing. He simply bends you over the kitchen counter, and slams himself in.

You’d thought Nathan fucked you with zeal, which he did. But it’s nothing compared to what Javier is doing now. It’s as if he’s trying to consume you, or else crawl under your skin and become joined together forever. He finds your sweet spots, paying attention to them in turn. First, he grabs the back of your neck - the tips of his fingers lightly pressing until you moan for him. Then down your spine before sweeping around to grab at your hip bone and rubbing circles into it. Back up your front to cup first your left breast and then your right, giving each a squeeze. But it’s when he reaches down between your legs that the heat between your legs blossoms into something more. You jump at the first press of his thumb at your clit. Javier presses himself even closer to you then, locking you in between him and the counter. A few seconds of his digits swirling around your bud is all you need and then you’re falling apart. You scramble to find purchase against the counter, legs shaking - nearly caving - as he keeps thrusting into you. You hear the familiar sound of a groan, feel him grow taller between you as if he’s getting up on his toes and then he bursts inside you. Rope after rope of cum paints your inner walls, fills you to the brim. Javier doubles over, his chest pressed to your back.

“What do you think?” he breathes, his hips still shifting in a barely discernible pattern. “Am I forgiven yet?” You twist your head, press a kiss to full lips.

“Not yet,” you answer, equally out of breath. “But you’ll get there.”

#nffalphabet #javier peña fic #nathan cable summers fic #javier peña x f!reader #nathan cable summers x f!reader #narcos fic #deadpool movieverse fic

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