Farleigh Being Disgusted At Everything Happening In Front Of Him

Farleigh being disgusted at everything happening in front of him

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3/15/24-New IG Story

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𝔴𝔦𝔱𝔠𝔥𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝔥𝔬𝔲𝔯 𝔳𝔬𝔴'𝔰

Summary: It's been a few months since that haunting morning at Saltburn, and life hasn't gotten any easier. You aren't sure if either of you have truly left that day behind, even though your bodies are miles away from those grand, boundless walls.

But together, you know you'll both survive.

Warnings: 18+, MDI! Oral (F! receiving), Face sitting, unprotected sex, AFAB, American!Reader. Some decent amounts of angst. Farleigh is going through it after Saltburn (follows canon and Felix's and Venetia's death's), but there's some corny, domestic fluff to take the edge off. A little small dose of jealous Farleigh. Mentions of alcohol and (implied) cocaine usage as a means of coping (but it's brief).

Notes: 16.9k words. Not proofread yet. @saradika-graphics, placed on Halloween night because I'm already missing fall and I'm completely shameless. Thank you to everyone who has ever left a comment and praise - it's always very much appreciated! Seriously, it makes me so happy! And I am sorry to anyone who I may have kept waiting for this. I hope you enjoy.

𝔓𝔞𝔯𝔱 𝔦- 𝔓𝔞𝔯𝔱 𝔦𝔦

You could still taste the party on your tongue; the scent of the alcohol that had been in the air, pungent and sharp. It was like the blaring music was still playing, vibrating across your skin from the volume of the stereo system instead of the mellow country classic faintly warbling out of the diner's tired speakers. It was a harsh juxtaposition and your brain, still a little sluggish from the chaos of the night is still trying to catch up. You could still feel the sweaty bodies bumping up against you own, smelling with the salt of sweat, the artificial fragrance of face paint, and that sweet plastic scent of fake blood. It was practically embedded in your nose, even with the warm plume of steam wafting up from the plate of food sat directly underneath your face. 

You had scarfed down most of it already. You were practically starving after all of the dancing you had done. It always manages to make you hungry, regardless of the previous meals you've had. You've forgone a sense of decorum in your famished, sensitive state and shove the entirety of your last piece of toast into your mouth, leaning over in case any of the jam wiggles loose and falls. Oh, course that's when the server makes another appearance. When you're wolfing down a mouthful of food. You try to smile up him around your chewing, awkward and apologetic, before lifting a hand up to hide your mouth. 

"Need a refill?" He asks, gently shaking the pitcher of water in his hand while he looks down at you with a polite smile of his own. He's making an odd amount of eye contact with you too, but you try to tell yourself that it might just be the light adrenaline induced buzz humming through your veins making you a little hyperaware. Something about his mannerisms seem strangely familiar, but your slow-moving brain comes up empty when you try to chase after that thought. Instead, you just nod wordlessly, humming out a short "mm-hmm" in lieu of a verbal response and nudge your glass closer to him across the scratched and Sharpie defaced tabletop to make it easier for him to pour. 

The few quick seconds that pass seem entirely too long, and the sound of the flowing stream of water seems to enunciate the time passing by. It feels embarrassing for no reason, and in your effort to shed some of the shame prickling over you, you glance over at the other end of the table to Farleigh. 

It's then you notice the way that he's outright glaring at the waiter without even trying to conceal the look. His mouth is twisted into a scowl as he props himself onto the table with a single elbow, and he takes another drag of his cigarette like he needs it to keep him tethered in place. His habit has skyrocketed these past couple of weeks in the absence of his other vices. You aren't a particular fan of the indoor smoking, but you'd seen the cook pass by a few minutes earlier on the way to the bathroom with a lit cigarette dangling between his lips, so it didn't seem to be a problem. Not to mention, the server had even provided him with a tiny little ashtray which he promptly flicks the embers of burnt tobacco into.  

You send him an inquisitive glance, but he's too caught up with glowering to notice. All you can figure is that they may have some kind of history, but then you can't help but wonder why he'd let you drag him to this particular diner if that were that case. 

The server - Daniel, you note, and the name is familiar too - hasn't seemed to notice Farleigh's displeased expression, and he's gone just as quickly as he had appeared, conveniently just as you're able to swallow your toast. You chase after it with your water before settling your attention back on Farleigh who still looks just as grumpy. Sure, his mood had admittedly dampened a little bit while you were both out celebrating, but that could go the same for you as well. As much as the both of you tried to shrug it off and move on, parties of all kinds have become a little bitter, a little raw after . . . 

You clear your throat, shifting in your seat, ignoring the way the polyester cushion clings to the bare skin of your legs despite the chill in the diner. He perks up a bit, peering at you from over his mug as he takes a sip. 

"What was that about?" You ask, but he just raises an eyebrow at you like he's confused. Even while he looks so disgruntled, you can't help but muse how adorable he looks with those dark kitten whiskers smeared across his cheeks, made from your eyeshadow pallet. 

"What do you mean, 'what was that about'?" He sits his drink down on the table, letting himself recline against the backrest of the booth. 

You shrug, letting your eyes rove over the window beside your shoulders and the cut-out paper decorations pasted to the glass; retro styled Jack o' Lanterns and ghosts. Though it was probably the condensation from the since passed storm that's really keeping them secured to their places. "I don't know. It seemed like you may have known him." 

His brows perk up, almost unamused while he shakes his head. "No. Not really," he responds cryptically.  

He doesn't seem to be lying. Farleigh's ability to be convincing when it comes to concealing the truth is sort of on a spectrum. No matter the scope of the lie, he's never great at hiding them. His eyes can get shifty, or he'll get a little too animated like he forgets how to express himself normally, becoming too self-conscious. It's obviously the smaller ones, the white lies usually, that he's able to be a bit more convincing with. But whatever this is, it's enough for him to be a little restless, fidgeting with the handle of the porcelain mug like he needs to distract himself. But from what, you aren't sure. And despite claiming not to know him, there must be some reason why his mood had taken even more of a decline since seeing the server. 

"He does look familiar though," you mumble absentmindedly. 

"I'm sure he does," Farleigh replies lowly, like the comment was only meant for him. But you hear it regardless and it's said with a kind of snark that you hadn't heard aimed at you in a long time. 

The expression on your face is incredulous. For a second you just stare at him silently and the music drifting across the quiet does little to make the atmosphere feel any less foreign. The old, florescent panel lights flicker above and buzz in an insistent drone, making everything even more bare and alien than it already is. You hadn't taken the brunt of Farleigh's ire in a long time. Okay, 'ire' might be a little dramatic. Irritation is probably more accurate. But it feels so weird - uncomfortable - to have him genuinely annoyed with something that you've apparently done. You're used to his sarcasm and quips, you're on the receiving end of them on a daily basis, just like he's on the receiving end of yours. It's normal. It's a part of your dynamic, and your shared, taunting and impish kind of humor is how the both of you grew close. Long before either of you had even realized. You can count on a single hand the number of times that you've had an actual disagreement or argument with Farleigh. But you don't enjoy them in the slightest, so you'd like to find out the root of this little problem before it builds and blows up in both of your faces. 

"First of all, what is that even supposed to mean?" You ask, pulling back to cross your arms. "And secondly, what's wrong?" 

He shoots you an exasperated look, like he's unconvinced of something. You don't reply aloud. You just shrug, openly confused. 

"Seriously?" He says with what sounds like disbelief. 

"What?" 

He scoffs and pins you with a glare that's simultaneously annoyed and relieved. You can see the minute way that his shoulders seem to relax, shedding the bit of stress that had been winding his body up tight. "You really don't recognize him?" 

The question makes you feel a little dimwitted. It prompts you to lean a little in your both, towards the end of the seat and you let your eyes move away from Farleigh. Scanning the diner, searching for the sight of the waiter in the hopes to toggle free that sense of familiarity that shrouds him. Maybe you'll finally be able to remember just who he is. It's been searing at your brain all night, and Farleigh's insistence that you know him just drives the urge deeper. You finally spot him behind the C shaped bar, refilling the salt and pepper shakers that he must have collected from the vacant tables. There is something there. The kind of acquaintance that comes with seeing the same cashier at a gas station more than once, or noticing the same neighbor trimming the bushes in their lawn when you go out to check the mail. But there isn't anything more than that. The sharp jut of his chin and the tattoo peeking out from underneath the short cut of his sleeve are features that you know that you've seen before, but you just end up drawing another blank. You'd like to blame it on alcohol, but despite having spent the entire night dancing and singing at the top of your lungs in a party, you haven't drank a single drop. 

You tilt back into your seat and return your focus to Farleigh with a lost shrug. 

"Jesus Christ," he huffs. "He's served us at least four other times." 

"Oh, that's it?" You say, a little indifferent. You were expecting something more . . . exciting than that. Maybe some drama involving a drunken fight that you couldn't remember at a bar or house party, and he had been the culprit. Literally anything other than he was just you're regular server. Plus, you hardly found that enough to warrant the heavy scowl that Farleigh had been giving him earlier. 

Farleigh sags even further against the cushion of the booth, and the expression on his face is outright petulant and soaked with annoyance. When he speaks next, his voice is at this odd cross of defeated but passionate. "He flirts with you all the time." 

Ah, there it is. 

You want to counter the argument. You yourself have been a waitress who's been accused of flirting with customers boyfriends just because you had come across as overtly friendly when asking for a drink order or dropping off the bill. An exhausting symptom that seems to come with serving the public and insecure lovers out on dates. But that little comment does manage to jog something free. Vague memories of said waiter - Daniel - staring at you for a little longer than necessary or brushing his fingers along yours whenever you'd hand him a cleared plate during past visits. But that's about all. Just subtle, otherwise harmless interest that he's apparently garnered for you. "Well, clearly he didn't do a very good job, because I hardly remembered him." 

The stormy expression doesn't slip from Farleigh's face, and as much as you're trying to joke, you know that this little bout of jealousy has stemmed from something deeper. Sure, he's always had an inclination of being a little possessive. You've caught glimpses of it in the past with his old flings and exes, but the way that he grips you is entirely different from that. He makes sure to touch you in some capacity when in public; a hand on the back of your waist to guide you through crowded areas, keeping his fingers laced with yours on walks, or pulling you into his lap whenever he's able to. He always makes sure to stake his claim on you somehow. Especially whenever he feels as though someone could be a threat to your relationship, even though you do your best to talk to him and placate those insecurities. On any other occasion, you would have been annoyed that he felt intimidated by some random guy at an IHop, but for whatever reason, this just feels off. But you know that this is different. Tonight is different. 

You had seen the shift in him at the party. It was just some get together for Halloween that one of his old friends had thrown for the holiday. It was meant to be small, and that was really one of the only reasons that you had agreed to go. You had wanted to stay inside your apartment for the night, as lame as it may sound. To just spend time curled up on the couch with him against your back while you both gorged yourself on candy and junk food and watched a few horror movies that you had rented from the Block Buster down the street. But Farleigh had insisted that he wanted to go, complaining that spending the entire Halloween night inside was lame. 

A part of you had been a little reluctant. The first weeks after Saltburn had been particularly hard on Farleigh. He had been on a path of self-destruction, like he was insistent on punishing himself for Felix and Venetia. He had made sure to frequent any and every party that he could manage, drinking and snorting whatever he could get his hands on. For a moment you thought that you might have lost him too.  It put a strain on you both. With you constantly voicing your concerns and him always insisting that he was fine. It had all come to a head one night when Farleigh had made a snarky comment towards someone he shouldn't have. Despite all of his sarcasm and harsh words, Farleigh isn't a fighter. At least, not in the physical aspect. But that's all it had took. Some drunken, scathing remark, that honestly, you can't even remember. But you do remember the fist that came after it. How it had cut through the air, and the loud thump of bone hitting bone, leaving a tender bruise, blue and purple in its wake. 

Even then, you could still see the temptation in his eyes while you had dug around in your freezer for some a makeshift ice pack, the temptation to curl back into a bottom of a bottle and never come back out. Finally, you had been the one who broke down, right in the middle of your kitchen, clutching a pack of frozen peas in your hand while the anger, and fear, and anxiety welled up to the surface. He had been quick to jerk up from his seat at the table, crossing the space between you and pulling you from the fridge and into his arms with broken, "I'm sorry's" spilling from him. 

"I can't lose you Farleigh," you cried, burying your face into his chest, breathing in his scent like it might vanish. "I can't."

His self-hatred and the blame that he held his cousins didn't just clear up overnight after that. There were times where you could still see the temptation and loathing glimmering in his eyes, but he was getting better. He was starting to work past it a little bit at a time. To finally let go of all of the booze and writhing, dancing bodies; the sound of laughter and streamers drifting down in the air. The reminders of that summer night back in England, and the morning after, when Felix had failed to show up to the breakfast table. It was hard for both of you. The vacant, bleeding wound that was left in his absence. The pain that comes with it. But even worse, was the reminder that if you must be hurting from the loss, that the sheer agony that Farleigh feels is something that you'd never truly be able to understand. The anguish and torture that must weigh over him every waking moment from his cousins' unexpected death - the death that he had been blamed for in the eyes of James, all because of the words of a stranger. 

Farleigh holds you like you're a ghost. He holds you like you might disappear if he doesn't. That you'll vanish and turn to smoke, or you'll turn your back on him like the Catton's - his family - have. God, even Venetia. Sweet Venetia is gone too. That's what Elsbeth had said to Farleigh when she reached out in a phone call one random evening. The last call - the last favor, she had said that Farleigh would ever receive from her. He had been inconsolable after that. Collapsing on the floor with violent, heaving breaths tearing from his chest after she had hung up on him. He had gone completely still before the flip phone had slipped from his hand with a harsh clatter. That was the only warning that you got before he had looked up to you, and the tears threatening to spill from his eyes had ripped your heart in half. It was the pained, lost sob that tore from his chest that ripped you from your shock and had you dropping down beside him and pulling him into your embrace. 

You can't recall how long you had sat with him on the carpet, clutching him to your body while he cried and gripped at your arms, and shoulders, and back like he didn't know what to do with himself. It had been your turn to cling to him like he might have been the one to disappear if you hadn't, doing your best to swallow back your own tears as he cried into the junction of your neck. 

You know that's all that his jealousy is. Fear that you'll leave him behind like the rest of his supposed family has. Sure, he has his mother and his father. But truthfully, he's always been saddled with the responsibility of keeping the relationship between them cordial; perpetually caught between the both of them. And his relationship with his mother is strained at best. Taxed by his constant worries for her recklessness with her monetary spending, and her inability to keep track of her expenses and bills. A defect of growing up wealthy, you suppose. 

So when Farleigh insisted that he wanted to get out of the apartment. To go out and celebrate you were reluctant. You voiced your concerns about it, but you didn't fight him on it. You knew that he needed the distraction. A break from all of the loneliness, misery and pain. You both had come to the agreement not to touch any sort of alcohol or drugs during the duration of the little Halloween get together, and that was enough for you. You trusted him completely. 

The first few hours at the party had been great. Even when way more people than planned arrived; all of them bringing friends and those friends brought their own until the house filled to its maximum occupancy. The floorboards and walls had practically been pulsing with the volume of the music blasting. Everything from Rob Zombie's Dragula to old Halloween classics like Thriller and The Monster Mash had blared out from the stereo system hooked up the living room. It had been nice to just let go and relax, letting yourself enjoy the first positive party experience in close to a couple months. For a while you allowed yourself to dance, grinding and moving against Farleigh, soaking in his heat and scent from around the chaos, feeling the warmth of his palms sweeping underneath your skirt and gripping onto your hips. It had been peace despite the excitement and havoc tainting the air like a sharp, heady buzz. But you knew something was wrong when you felt the brush of his lips pause over the skin of your neck, and his body had stilled against yours. It made you stop in turn, looking over your shoulder to check him with the confused whisper of his name on your tongue. And when you caught his eyes, locked onto something past your shoulders like a deer staring into the headlights of an approaching car, you wordlessly turned to track his sight. 

It was a pair of wings. Tinted in shades of a fiery orange and violet from the lights strung around the circumference of the room. Their true color must have been a shade of soft white, but some broken part of you waited for them to shift into a rich, glint of gold. And in that moment, for a quick but painful second you could remember the scent of the summer air. Tinged and damp with dew and sweet with pollen and the alcohol that had been spilt across the lawn. The shifting bodies around you weren't people at all, they were the looming hedges of the maze, and the soft leaves sweep and scratched at your skin. It wasn't a girl in an angel costume wearing those wings, but Felix, dead and sprawled out on the lush grass while the heavy music mutated into the anguished cries of Venetia and Farleigh - 

Farleigh. 

You had snapped out the trance with a gasp. You had turned to him as quickly as you could. Gripping onto his forearms firmly, strong enough to break him from his lost stare. When he had looked down at you then, he was so broken. You could see a layer of tears glittering over his eyes from the cast of the lights; lost and defeated. "Let's go outside " you had said, sliding a hand down to thread your fingers into his own, gently tugging to lead him towards the front door, weaving through the shifting, wild throng of people who were caught up in the night. 

You left without warning, desperate to get outside to breathe in the crisp autumn air. But once you both had made it out onto the front porch, neither of you stopped. You had both kept walking with your hands tightly fastened to each other as you set off down the street, vacant now that all of the trick r' treaters had long since purged the houses of all of their candy and turned in for the night to gobble down their bounties. Soon the loud pulse of music projecting from the house party faded into silence, and the only sound was the sharp clap of your heels and the thump of Farleigh's shoes against the damp concrete while the insistent barking of an unsettled dog a couple of blocks away range out distantly. It was still. Calm. And you just walked with no particular destination in mind, focusing on the feel of each other's presence underneath your hands. You would glance up at him every now and again, silently checking on him and you could tell by the look in his eyes that a part of him was still there. Still trapped in Saltburn; seated at that grand table in a room bathed in red. 

And you suppose that you're still there too. Trapped in that chair, looking across the space that separated you to try and meet Farleigh's shocked, unseeing gaze. And so now you did your best to be there for him. Reminding yourself that you aren't there anymore. You're in the present now. You both are. You did what you could to remind Farleigh of that as well. Talking about anything that would pop up in your head to try and draw him out. You rambled about work, particularly your coworker Joy (which had to be the most ironic name ever) because he's always interested to hear the newest scoop of drama that comes from working with her. He hates Joy even though he has yet to meet her. He dislikes her just because you don't like her. It's always the highlight of your night to come home from a shift and just being able to sit down at the tiny kitchen/dining table for two and venting to Farleigh about your day. He always hangs onto each word like your gossip is an update on his favorite reality TV show. It's ritual of sorts that you'd usually save for at the night, when you were both unwinding from the day, but you found yourself rambling regardless. 

You ranted about today's most recent bout of drama. Drama that he had already heard before when he had gotten home from his own shift, but it didn't keep the story from spilling in some desperate attempt to get him to come back to you. You reiterated how Joy had been caught sleeping with two of her ex's close friends without either of them being aware of it. Adding minute details that you had previously forgotten in an attempt to liven up the story. Retelling the drama that had blown up quite fantastically this morning, with both the both of her boyfriend's showing up to confront her, with the sort of coincidental timing that should have been impossible. You and the customers scattered around the store had been quite entertained for a good ten minutes before your manager had grown privy to the situation - mostly due to the loud shouting match that broken out between the scorned men - and threatened to call the cops on the pair. 

"She deserves it," Farleigh had responded. The sound of genuine mirth had been enough to put you at ease and a quick glance had confirmed that he was smiling. It was faint. Hardly there, but you could still see the light impression of it perking at the corners of his lips. It motivated you to keep talking. About anything and everything that came to mind.  But this time you felt less anxious to get the words out. Less worried. It was all relaxed and at ease as you strolled down the street, idly admiring the decorations strung up the houses along the road, burning string lights in varieties of purple, and green, and orange bordering their roofs. There were quite a few cemeteries made in the front lawns this year; fake Styrofoam headstones with skeletal arms propped up beneath them to mimic the dead rising from their graves. 

But it seemed that your gut had other plans when you eventually found yourselves coming to a stop in familiar fractured parking lot belonging to a frequented IHop. One that could easily be mistaken as abandoned with its faded yellow paint dividing the parking spaces and the sun damaged pylon sign; muted to a dusty robin blue from all the years in the weather. You supposed that it wasn't all that odd that your subconscious brought you here. It was you and Farleigh's go to spot after a night of bar hopping. 

Before you could even ask Farleigh if he was hungry, he was already leading you across the parking lot towards the double front doors with those corny decals stuck on the windows in the shape of witches on brooms and the silhouettes of soaring bats. 

Now you watch Farleigh with a bittersweet smile on your face, tracing over the shape of the cat ears secured into the thick of his curls. It was some random headband of yours that he had dug up from the depths of your closet. To be completely honest, you aren't even sure where it had come from, but you're glad that he found them. You never knew that seeing Farleigh in a pair of cat ears was something that you needed to see. 

It's in your blatant admiration that you realize that you're being watched as well, and it's enough to break you from your trance to look back over to the main dining counter where Daniel is finishing up with refilling the pepper and saltshakers. His stare catches yours and it catches you off guard how confident he seems. There's a playful, assured glimmer in his eyes while he watches you from behind the bar. You can't help but wonder just how long he's been staring at you for, and he makes it even worse when he winks at you. 

Ugh. 

Okay, Farleigh hasn't been wrong about the flirting you suppose. 

You don't even bother hiding the disgust that seeps into your features, pulling your mouth into a scowl and you can see the way that he deflates with disappointment when you pull your focus from him and back onto Farleigh, who thankfully hasn't noticed the exchange. With the hand that balances the lit cigarette between its fingers he's absentmindedly fiddling with the handle of his mug, shifting the cup around like he's studying the way the porcelain glints underneath the pale glow of the fluorescents. You don't even think when you shuffle from your side of the booth. Farleigh watches you curiously when you step around the table to slip onto his seat until your nestled up against his side, smushing your cheek against his shoulder. A wistful smile lifts at the corners of your mouth when you feel him tilt his face onto the crown of your head, going lax against your body with a soft, inaudible sigh. You drag in his cologne in a lungful, taking in the warm spice of it, amber and cigarettes; infused with the subtle saccharine notes of vanilla and it has you relaxing even more. And with a full stomach, the influence of sleep is already beginning to pull at your limbs. 

"We should head home," you suggest, tilting your chin up to peer at him from underneath your lashes - or you look at him as best as you can with him still leaning his cheek on the top of your head. "It's getting late." 

"It's barely three," he counters. You can hear an amused puff of air leave his chest, but his tone almost sounds playfully offended, like he couldn't believe you'd propose such a thing. You just barely fight off the urge to roll your eyes. 

"Don't you have work tomorrow?" You ask, reaching for his coffee to steal a sip, drinking down the sugared beverage without a shred of remorse. Even though you can practically feel the way that he's side eyeing you. 

"Thanks for reminding me," he grouses with no real bite. 

"You're welcome," you reply easily, tone lightly teasing and good-natured. You let your head roll back onto his shoulder, knocking his chin free from its perch so that you're fully able to look at him. He's already focused downward to watch you; the dark of his eyes glittering underneath the harsh glow of the fluorescents, highlighted with flecks of honey and bronze. "C'mon, you can't say that being home right now doesn't sound at least a little bit nice. We could be curled up underneath a warm blanket right now, watching bad scary movies. And we could finally knock out that bag of candy I bought," you tempt. "Or maybe you're just blowing it off because you screamed like a girl that last time we watched horror." 

"I did not!" He denies, sounding and looking wildly offended. 

Your eyebrows perk up, an unattractive snort leaving you. "You absolutely did." 

You can recall that night quite vividly. You'd experienced Farleigh's . . . eh . . . incompatibility with horror films in the past, during movie nights and little get togethers at theaters with friends. So you had done your best to try and pick out something else to watch but he had been insistent that he could handle the movie. Unsurprisingly, he had flinched every time the harsh sound of that iconic chainsaw had blared through the speakers and had tensed up every time the camera had panned off the characters to imply a jump scare or oncoming attack from the unseen slasher. You had given him your hand to squeeze for moral support, but he had decided about midway through the movie that it wasn't enough and had practically begun to use you as a human shield, trying to wedge his body between you and the couch. His excuse had been that he just wanted to hold you, and for a moment you had believed him with how he had all but scooped you into his lap. But the way that he would nearly hide his face into the crook of your neck during the gory parts of the film was pretty telling. And when he wasn't using you as a buffer, he had tried to preoccupy himself by pointing out any plot holes and the dumb decision that any of the characters made. Not that you minded. His commentary is actually pretty hilarious when he gets nervous. 

"That's not how I remember it," he counters confidently, prompting a light laugh from you. 

"My mistake then," you reply softly, voice low but jesting. "I must have remembered it wrong." 

He hums lowly in agreement and there's the hint of a smile on his lips. With the way that your faces are angled towards each other the points of your noses brush just a bit. You can feel the gentle warmth of his body heat wafting over your skin and sinking in deep. For a second you forget that you're curled up the booth of some ratty diner, that it isn't just the two of you in the world. You think that you could stay here forever, huddled up against him with the scent of coffee and his cologne in the air. His head angles closer to you, and you can feel the hint of his lips on yours making your lashes lower, threatening to slip closed. 

"Let's go then," he says suddenly, and the gentle sensation of his lips vanish. 

You jerk back with a look of betrayal on your face, but he doesn't seem offended in the slightest. If anything, there's a sort of satisfaction and mischief glinting in his gaze. You want to offer some kind of retort, but your brain is sluggish, a little addled with the desire to sleep and the waning influence of alcohol that nothing smart makes its way to the tip of your tongue. But you do pass a cursory glance at the table and the empty plates scattered along the countertop. "What about the bill?" 

He looks at you like the answer is obvious, a sassy "really?" type of expression, leaning back against the backrest, stretching his legs out to give himself the leverage to reach into his pocket to retrieve his wallet.  "We eat here all the time, and you always order the same thing. I know how much the bill cost." 

"Damn, all right then," you mumble, watching as he throws a couple of bills onto the table between the plates and cups. Then he's nodding his chin at you, silently asking for you shuffle out from the booth, snuffing out the end of his cigarette and wedging what's left of it between the divot made into the edge of the ashtray. He's quick to follow after you with his body nudging along yours as you both slide from the seat. He tucks his wallet back into its place once he's up on his feet, already reaching to take one of your hands but the sudden projection of a familiar voice rings out, making you both pause. "Do y'all need the check?" 

You turn to see Daniel who's leaning himself away from the bar and pepper shakers like he's ready to move and make his way around towards your table. Farleigh passes the server a look that seems nonchalant, but you know him well enough to still be able to notice the subtle curl of his top lip, judgmental and unimpressed. You just barely resist the amused urge to roll your eyes at the display. 

"No, we're good," Farleigh says as he shrugs off his tux and then he's twirling the jacket around so that he's able to drape it around your shoulders in a single flourish. It's an obvious way of him trying to put a silent claim on you, but you find yourself exchanging smiles regardless; soft and almost private. He steps closer to you, and you turn on your heels to face the exit as he secures one of his arms around your waist, tugging you close against the warmth of his body. "Money's on the table." 

He gives Daniel one last glance as you press one of the double doors open; it's just a pointed as the last and the smile on his face is just a little bit smug when you lean into him. But you don't let him revel in his gloating for long before you subtly grip the hand that he has around your waist and tug him out from the cozy shelter of the diner and into the night, tossing a quick, courteous "have a goodnight!" to Daniel from over your shoulder. 

The walk back to the house seems quicker than the one before it, and before you know it, you're both slipping into the little Civic situated along the curb. Farleigh had rolled his eyes when you had expectantly held you hand out for the keys, which he had relented you to you with a small scoff. It's all for show. There's nothing he loves more than being chauffeured around; sitting in the passenger seat to tell you when the light has turned green and where to turn (even though he might just be one of the most directionally challenged people you know). 

You take the backroads home, ignoring the main drags in an effort to avoid the scattered throngs of traffic that still occupy the popular streets. It's a short drive, but that doesn't stop Farleigh from digging around in the CD binder for music. The song only gets to around the halfway mark by the time you're sweeping the car into the designated parking space underneath a glowing streetlamp, decorated with one of those Halloween tensiles with those tiny pumpkin silhouettes. He doesn't let you turn off the engine, having you let the vehicle idle until the chorus of the song is over. Then and only then are you allowed to shut off the car. Not that you can complain much, you're always more than content to hear Farleigh sing. 

Before you know it, you're both jogging up the steps of the second floor, passing by the door of your close neighbor; bordered with a garland and decorated with a Christmas wreath, already in preparation for the next big holiday. A juxtaposition to the Jack o' lanterns posted outside of your door like guards. The both of them are complete opposites of each other, with the face that Farleigh had carved in his made from smooth, seamless lines. Yours on the other hand . . . is a little less fortunate. To put it lightly, it looked like you had been under the influence of every drug and alcohol known to man and went at the pumpkin while you were seeing double; all jagged edges and overlapping corners. Carving had never been a particular talent of yours. 

You have to wiggle the key into the lock when you twist it, the damn thing always sticks and snags on some inner mechanism that you don't know anything about. And when you nudge the door open, you have to firmly push it with the point of your shoulder to help it swing on its hinges because it always drags over the threshold. But you feel nothing but relief when you step inside with Farleigh closely trailing behind you, making sure to close the door and lock it once he's inside. 

It was a comfort to be home after such a long night out, and the fragrance of a candle that you had burned earlier, fusing with old traces of laundry detergent and the distant scent of the Eggo's that you had toasted this morning (still somehow going strong) feels inviting. It's a small space. Hardly enough room for two people. But you and Farleigh happily make it work. The tight walls feel cozy, decorated with pieces of you both; framed photos from vacations and past road trips, and that painting of a gorgeous golden field that Farleigh had reluctantly gravitated towards at a thrift store (he had snubbed his nose at buying anything second hand for a while, but you had gotten him to come round to it eventually). It was your home. A safe space, a shelter from everything, and everywhere you look there are little hints of him. 

After landing back in America from that awful flight from England with James' cold, harsh words still echoing around both of your skulls, you and Farleigh had practically become inseparable. You clung to each other. You were buoys for each other, keeping yourselves afloat with the unforgiving torrents flooding through your minds. That night at Saltburn feels like a dream. A ghost story. And no matter how hard you tried; you couldn't get that morning out of your head. The flashes of golden feathers; the sight of limp, pale skin; those wine-red curtains pulled over the windows, dousing the room in an awful crimson light, making the streaks of tears pouring down Farleigh's cheeks glitter lowly, his face pinched with confusion and anguish. The memory always has something bitter and sharp washing over your tongue; your chest tightens like your heart might rip in two and burst. 

It had been you who had suggested moving in together. Only a few weeks after returning home from Saltburn. You and Farleigh had practically been cinched at the hip since then. It was odd for everyone on the outside looking in. You had always been at each other's throats before, lashing out with insults and sarcasm, but ever since returning back from England, neither of you could manage to pull away from the other for long. It was clear to see that something had happened during the trip, something to cause a fundamental shift between you and him. But neither of you ever bothered explaining much more past the fact that you had both "made up," so to speak, back in England. And you only told the necessary people about what had happened to Felix, such as Graham, who had built somewhat of a friendship with the Catton during his visits to the States. But that was all.

For a time, you struggled to find your rhythm in everyday life, to get out of that strange, muddled rut that your brain had sunk down into since Felix and Venetia's passing's. Farleigh, obviously, had struggled more than you. The cloud that loomed over him was thick and suffocating, and you could tell that it was threatening to tear him down and burry him underneath its weight. You made more of an effort to be near him, doing you best to visit him, to keep him out of his head and his guilt whenever you had time off from work and personal affairs.

He had, for the most part, moved in with his mother. Not because he had to, Farleigh had been able to save up a small cushion of money when he was still in the good graces with the Catton's, but because he needed it. He needed to be close to some part of his family. A part of it, no matter how small, that hadn't turned their back on him. Frederica did her best to console him too. But it wasn't always a help when she would often wind up just as equally as distraught as he was. Just as ravaged by grief of her niece and nephew's deaths and the hurt of her own brother fully cutting ties with her and Farleigh and renouncing them as part of the family. 

As a result, Farleigh would often spend most of his spare time with you back at your old, shared apartment with Graham. Sometimes you wouldn't even talk. You just sit quietly and feel. Soaking in each other's warmth and scent. Reminding yourselves that you were both okay. That you were still present and here. That Saltburn hadn't taken you from each other and eaten you alive. It was one quiet night just like that, with Farleigh curled up in your arms while you reclined on the old outside couch on the balcony, gazing at the neighboring complexes and looming office towers with that particular question heavy on the tip of your tongue. Your eyes idlily skipped along the glowing windows of another nearby apartment building, taking in the sight of distant silhouettes shifting within them. Of other people going about their task, glimpsing into people's lives. Like the man pacing along his living room floor, angerly shouting into his phone; a young woman a few floors above him gently rocking her infant within the cradle of her arms as she halfheartedly watched something playing on the TV; but what caught your attention the most was an older couple shuffling along their carpet, arms wound around each other in a firm but soft embrace as they danced. Just enjoying the other's presence. Like they were the only two people left alive. 

It had that question back with a vengeance, searing your tongue with the insistence to get out. But you held back. From fear, reluctance, anxiety. You weren't sure if he was ready for a step yet. The timing was admittedly a little awful. He was still mourning. Still bound and wrapped in grief. But you still couldn't help but hope that maybe this would be just what he needed. Maybe this could help to soothe him. It wouldn't heal his wounds. Not entirely. Only time could do that. But maybe it would be enough to let him know that he wasn't alone. That you weren't going to leave him. That you wanted and needed him just as much as he wanted and needed you. 

The lease was coming up in about a month. Something you and Graham had talked about extensively before, mostly because he was planning on moving out to Nashville. Something about his music career because L.A. wasn't panning out how he had imagined it to. He said that he has put out an ad for possible roommates if you wished to stay and keep the apartment. But truthfully, you didn't need a space that expensive, that big. A fresh start was in order, a place to make new memories. And you knew exactly who you wanted to make them with. Who you wanted by your side. All you had to do was ask. It was just a simple question, that's all. But it really wasn't, was it? You don't just ask your boyfriend to move into an apartment with you after not even a full two months of dating. Especially after two of his family members died and his uncle disowned him. But you have known him for years, to be fair. 

"Farleigh?" You spat it out before the anxiety could seal your jaw shut. For a second you had thought that he'd fallen asleep; the puffs of his breathing are warm and steady against your neck. You felt it more than you heard it, a low inquisitive hum that reverberated across your skin. You contemplated about lying, coming up with some kind of excuse and pretending that your question had never existed in the first place. Your silence must have caught his attention or concerned him, because he was shuffling himself back, nudging himself along your body and curling up along the sofa as best as he could without falling off of it, so that he was able to peer up at you from his place on your chest.

"What is it?" He asked, eyes glinting softly in the warm, pale lights strung up along the ceiling of the balcony. You saw something flash in them. Something vulnerable and worried, and you knew then that his brain must have been leaping to the worst possible scenario, hardwired in after all of the misery and tragedy that's fallen over him since Saltburn. It hurt you to know that he was jumping to the most horrible conclusion because of you, as unintentional as it was. It was more than enough incentive for you to spit it out. 

"Do you want to move in with me? " You nearly cringed when you said it, and you made an effort to look anywhere else but him. You were afraid to see even the faintest possibility of hesitance or disgust cross over his features. "Not here. I mean it's fine. The rent and the utilities are honestly insane, and the landlord is kind of an asshole. So, maybe we could try something new? A fresh start for the both of us. I just - it's just an idea. You don't have to agree, obviously. I know it's a lot to sort of just ask you." 

You tensed up when he moved himself fully off of you, and you adjusted yourself against the arm of the couch, drawing your knees close to your chest so that he had room to sit himself up beside you. It felt too stifling. Suddenly everything had been too loud. The sound of the traffic humming down below, the sharp honk of car horns and the squeal of bad brakes. The gentle breeze suddenly felt like it was howling and deafening in your ears. 

"You're serious?" Farleigh's voice split through the chaos, drawing you attention onto him. The expression on his face had struck you. It didn't look betrayed or uncomfortable; it was hopeful, if not a little disbelieving. All of the anxiety lumped within your chest had thawed in an instant, vanishing like it had never been there at all, melting into something warm. 

"I'm serious," you answered, the slight shake in your voice shifting into something firm and assured. 

His throat bobbed, eyebrows slightly furrowing as he stared at you like he didn't know how to react. You wanted to say something. To tell him that he didn't have to answer so soon, or at all for that matter. He didn't have to agree or disagree with you. Either would be fine. His lips parted, the corners quirking with what might have been the faint pull of a smile. "I -" he drew in a short breath like he was trying to ground himself. His throat bobbed, while his gaze roved over your features like he was searching for something. The hint of a lie or a joke maybe, but he found none. "Yeah, " he answered, wincing slightly before correcting himself. "Yes. I'd love to." 

It had only taken a couple of weeks to find something that seemed promising. Though it did help that neither of you had too many requirements to meet. As long as it was affordable (a near impossible condition to meet in a place like L.A. unless you want to live in a complete hole in the wall, but you got lucky - somewhat), and Farleigh also wanted a place that was close enough to his mother, and something that wasn't too far of a commute from your either of your jobs. Not much later, something had come up. It was . . . quaint to say the least. The size of the space was nowhere near the amount of room provided in your past apartment, nor Farleigh's old place. Something that he was less than enthused about when you were given a tour by the landlord, but it was something that he would eventually look past. Mostly. It wasn't perfect. On some nights, you can hear one of the neighbors practicing on their piano - luckily, they're pretty good at it, so it's more of a nice background music than a nuisance - and it takes close to a good ten minutes for the water to heat up, but it's yours. And with Farleigh with you, it's your home. 

And now that you're finally back after a long night out, your first goal was to change out of your costume and clean up the makeup and grime of the night. You and Farleigh went about your usual routines, putting away your clothes and somehow the both of you wind up jumping in the bath together for a quick rinse. Exchanging soft kisses while basking in the warmth of the water and sneaking gentle touches under the guise of spreading bodywash along each other's skin. It didn't surpass any further than that. Not even with that delicate warmth and longing smoldering along each and every touch, the potential to become something more. You can see it in Farleigh's eyes too, glinting like something eager and hungry. But it's also soft when he looks at you. It makes you feel cherished and so wholly wanted, that for a moment, it's almost like your chest could burst open and all of the love and devotion filled up inside might come spilling out. 

It's always been these little private moments between the two of you that you really hold dear. That you cherish and replay over and over again during idle moments throughout the day; quiet lulls in your work shift or when you're home alone. You can only hope that you can offer the same solace for Farleigh. A reprieve from his anguish. His guilt. He feels responsible for Felix, and by proxy, Venetia. You know that he does. You've seen it in his eyes, heard it from his mouth when he's distraught with the tears that come and go. He still jolts awake some nights, harsh enough to rattle and pull you from your sleep. He'll be disoriented, hazed over and still caught within the stubborn hold of sleep and bad memories. His eyes are always a little wild, glassy and damp from tears that have yet to spill over. On others, he does his best not to disturb you, doing his best to swallow down his quiet cries and slipping out of bed. But it's almost like your body can tell that he's gone. Whether it be the loss of his body heat, or the absence of his weight nestled beside your own, you never fail to wake up, slipping a handout over his side of the mattress to check for him. Clarity always rushed over you whenever you feel that he isn't there. Thankfully the panic has finally left after the first couple times he's done it, but the drive to find him never goes away. 

He's usually in the living room, absentmindedly watching the TV. Or sometimes he's at the kitchen table, drinking a cup of coffee or tea while he looks through old pictures on his phone. You always announce yourself with a small 'hey' as not to startle him, and he'll always greet you with a smile. Sometimes it reaches his eyes, sometimes it doesn't. But you always refuse to leave his side. Not until you're able to get a genuine laugh from him, not until you can see some sort of peace reflect in his eyes and you know that the horrors of that morning in the maze finally release their claws and sink back into the recesses of his mind. Not entirely gone, but not at the focus at least. 

"What are you thinking about?" His voice pierces through the reminiscent fog clouded over your brain, drawing you from your thoughts and onto him. You have to tilt your head at an angle from the way that you have yourself tucked towards his chest with some of your back nudging against the chilled enamel of the tub. There's amusement flickering in his eyes, glittering like a dark bronze and molten honey underneath the glow of the warm bathroom lighting. 

"You." A bit of a corny response maybe, but an honest one, and it comes out low and gentle. 

"Sap," Farleigh smirks, an amused huff rising from his chest, but he presses his forehead against yours, sighing deeply when your skin brushes over his. A smile tugs at your lips, but you can't find it in yourself to form a response to his light teasing. Not with the dull lull of sleep in your system. The water is too warm, too pleasant, making your limbs pliant and heavy. And the feel of his body pressed against yours doesn't help fight off the sense of ease weighing your body down. "Come on," he calmly urges. "Let's go watch those movies you've been harassing me about all night." 

"Don't act like you don't want to," you grumbled. "You even picked out one." 

He doesn't verbally reply to you, but he does make sure to land a slap on your ass when you rise up out of the bathtub to slip into the clothes you had left on the sink. You shoot him a playful glare over your shoulder, but all you get in response from him is a cheeky smile.

That's fine, you'll tag him back. You're patient. He's quick to pull the drain on the tub before rising up and stepping over the enamel boarder, and you're hyperaware of his movements, quietly waiting for an open window to strike. You go about your business, trying not to make your anticipation obvious as you apply lotion over your body before slipping into your comfy clothes, all the while watching him out of your peripherals as he towels himself off. But he's still fully facing you, running the thick linen over his damp skin. He must pick up on your focus because his eyes skirt up to you, suspicion flickering in them and he squints at you with a smile curling on his lips. "What?" 

"Hmm?" You hum cluelessly, doing your best feign ignorance with a light shrug. "Nothing." 

He doesn't seem to be fully convinced, but he doesn't speak on it. For a quick moment you forget about your revenge completely. Getting caught inside the intimate atmosphere built within the bathroom; the humid cloud lingering over the space, perfumed with the fragrant notes of your bodywashes and lotion; vanilla, nutmeg, and cardamon. It's warm in here from the moisture, not uncomfortably so, but soothing like a rich balm. And with Farleigh here, it just helps to make the mood that's settled over you feel even more private and placid, like being wrapped inside a familiar blanket. But as peaceful as this is, you can't forget that easily, and a moment presents itself when he turns away from you in favor of reaching for his sleep plants, slightly bending over to tug them up and around his knees. You don't wait, reaching out and cracking your palm down on the soft swell of his cheek just before he manages to tug his sweatpants over his hips.

His head turns in your direction so quickly you briefly fear that he might get whip lash, but you see the warning flash in his eyes before he even moves, and luckily your body is quick to jerk into action before you have to consciously make an effort for it. You dart out of the bathroom, making sure to keep your footing and not slip on the tiles as you all but leapt out onto the carpeted junction situated between all four of the apartment's spaces. You could practically feel him coming up on you, even without the rapid patter of his feet tracking across the distance between you. There's a quick, playful shout of your name, urging you to make a split-second decision and you sharply veer off into the living room, just narrowly escaping the reaching fingers of one of his hands; you could feel them brush over your back as you flinched out of their grasp. 

An excited, breathless laugh bubbles up from you, triggered by a combination of delight and an unserious sense of nerves; a primal instinct urging you to just move and avoid being grabbed. It guides you to swing around the end of the coffee table furthest from the entrance of the room just in time to see Farleigh bolt through the threshold. He's stops himself short before he could all but slam into the coffee table, and his body is pulled taunt, muscles bunched in preparation to sling him around the small piece of furniture and in your direction at any given moment. It has you on edge, even more so than that competitive glimmer in his eyes. "You know I'm gonna catch you," he taunts, leaning forward with a type of confidence that pisses you off. "So you should just give in now, and cling onto what little bit of dignity you have left." 

You can't hold in the scoff that leaves you, the way that your mouth twists into a playful scowl. "Like I'd give in so easily." 

You know realistically, this game isn't going to last long. There's only so many places to run to in the apartment. He's going to catch you at some point, but that doesn't mean that you can try to avoid it for as long as you can. He's growing impatient, you can tell by the way that he keeps shifting to different sides of the table, trying to trick you into flinching close enough for him to reach out and grab you. But that's fine. It's good even. You use it, pretending to jerk over to the left when he moves, prompting him to lurch forward to get ahold of you. But you anticipate the move, darting back on your feet and rounding around the side of the table before he can so much as blink. A loud surprised swear rings out behind you, a strained 'fuck' as you bolt towards the open threshold. 

There's the hope that maybe if you get to the kitchen, you can hold him off better. The space isn't massive by any means, but the sparing amount of furniture provides more of an open area to move around in. The table there is bigger than the compact one in the living room, making it a better shield to provide distance. Your heart rate spikes with excitement as you dash towards your chosen destination, intent to put as big of a gap between you both as possible, tearing across the floor with a laugh. You come up on the kitchen in a matter of seconds, but before your feet can step from the soft carpet and onto the fake, vinyl flooring a sturdy arm snakes around your middle and pulls you into the firm expanse of a chest, ripping a sharp gasp of his name from your lungs. 

It's his turn to laugh now, but it sounds smug and mocking as he backs up deeper into the living room. Every step just drives in your loss. You make idle efforts to get free, squirming and shifting in his grip, but his arms might as well as be steel bands around your abdomen. "So much for putting up a fight," he teases. But you don't get time to make a comeback before you're being spun and shoved down onto the couch. The push was light, but the fall steals the air from your lungs regardless, and the abrupt change in perspective leaves you a little disoriented. It's the sensation of the cushions around you shifting from someone's weight that reorients you, forcing your eyes to focus on the figure that sweeps over your body. His body heat rushes over you with the smell of amber and spice that has you sinking further into the piece of furniture when you should be trying to shuffle out from underneath him to escape. 

The expression on his face is fully gloating, dark eyes twinkling with mirth, and the sight of it is enough to finally have some sort of retort spilling from your mouth, as delayed as it is. "Fuck you," you snap, but it does nothing to snuff out his apparent delight. If anything it seems to amplify it. 

"Careful," he warns, dipping his voice down that low rumble that you love. His hands are placed on either side of your head, keeping you comfortably trapped underneath him. He angles his head with a teasing smile, the tip of his nose ghosting over yours. The shift in mood is obvious, but not jarringly so, nor is it unwelcome. It falls over you both as easily, and suddenly the intention of calming down for the night and enjoying a horror movie marathon leaves you just as the air from your lungs has. "I might just take you up on that offer." 

"What makes you think I was offering?" You query, tilting your head so that his lips brush against yours, soft and inviting. The little amount of space between you gives you enough mobility to rearrange your legs, lifting to them to wrap securely around his waist, and he lets you draw him closer into the gap between your thighs with a light nudge. His eyelashes flutter, a minute gesture that you just barely catch underneath the intimate, dim glow of the lamp in the corner. Farleigh can hardly resist, draping himself against your body until his hips and stomach are pressed along yours and you can feel his body heat radiating from both of your clothes. Your body shifts in its own accord, softly rolling against his in a desperate motion to seek out more of him, and the thrilled look on his face makes a dull sense of embarrassment prickle at your cheeks. 

"Call it a gut feeling," he answers and the pout of his lips whisper of yours when he speaks. 

You fleetingly contemplate on taunting him back, but you toss that train of thought out the window. Instead, you tilt your chin to seal your mouth over his, swiping your tongue over the delicate skin, sweet and bitter with coffee and the smoke of a cigarette. He moans into you, light with what almost sounds like relief, and the noise, as simple as it is, is more than enough to have a dull throb of heat ripple down your spine. You slip your hands up his neck, reaching to scratch your nails up the base of his neck near the curls there, and it you're gratified to pull the desired response from him, satisfaction flaring in you when a pleasured shiver goes down his back. He licks into your mouth, languid and hungry. 

His hips grind over yours, drawing a gasp from your chest when you feel the shape of him, already hot and heavy, through the material of both of your pants. It's more than enough to get you to chase after the sensation, working your own in a desperate attempt to build the warmth smoldering deep inside the base of your abdomen until you're both humping at each other on your living room couch like a couple of teenagers. One of his hands moves to your thigh, drawing it up higher and spreading it further open so that he can lean more of his weight, dragging himself across your clothed cunt meanly. You're already a little wet, slick between your thighs, but even then, you don't feel any urgency to rush. You just want to feel him. To focus on the press of his body against your own, and to breathe in the scent of him. 

But the clothes you both wear serve as an irritating barrier. A buffer that dulls his warmth and the sensation of his skin on yours. The only thought swirling around in your head is that they need to be off, gone and tossed somewhere across the room. You slip your hands underneath the edge of his shirt, wadding it up within your hands and tugging. It earns you an amused laugh with him breaking the kiss to pull back and look at you, but not without a teasing bite against your bottom lip. "Is there something you want?"

"Yes," you say, voice almost petulant and determined. "Off. I want it off." 

You don't stop trying to slip his shirt off, shooting him a glare when it hitches underneath his armpits, and he doesn't make any effort to assist you in shedding his clothes. "Okay, okay, " he relents, shuffling on his palms to readjust himself but he must have caught onto your hair because it has a stinging heat blossoming on the side of your skull, tearing a surprised yelp from your mouth. "Fuck! Hair - you're on my hair!" 

"Wha - shit! Sorry!" He jerks back onto his haunches like you had struck him, thankfully drawing his hands back. The relief is near instant, but you can still feel the side of your scalp throbbing from the pain making you swear lowly. His gaze roves over you like he's expecting to find some kind of visible wound, and the concern in his eyes has affection curling in your chest despite the sharp tenderness echoing throughout your skull. That's what you get, you suppose, for trying to make out on a couch. 

"It's okay," you assure, and the gentleness in your tone has him relaxing. A smile makes its way on his face, and he leans down again, this time making sure to be mindful of your hair, to place soft kisses across the expanse of your face. Peppering the cushion of his lips over your cheeks, your nose, your chin; each one an apology. Neither of you can hold in the small puffs of laughter that spill from you, lighthearted and close. You stroke your hands back up his neck again, curling your fingers over the nape to draw him in closer to return your own bout of kisses along the corners of his mouth and jaw. 

"Still, I do feel bad," he says. That familiar cadence is back already, dipping low into a smoky rumble that you swear you can feel thrumming over your skin. "Let me make it up to you." 

And even with the little slip up and the brief shift in mood that had come from it, it isn't enough to have dampened that coil of desire and want that burns in the cradle of your hips. Not in the slightest. The look in his eyes is consuming, dark and glinting with hunger and longing type of want. It's a look that never fails to weaken you, it's one that you've yet to build an immunity against, and you don't think that you ever will. It's honestly a little embarrassing how quickly it never fails to make you crumble. "I can't say no to that." You try to sound collected and unbothered, but there's a pale quiver in your voice regardless; a gasp nearly catches in your throat. 

The smirk that tugs across his face is impish, entirely too complacent and a little mischievous for your liking. It's the type of gaze that you've been pinned under probably close to a hundred times already, and it's one that spells trouble and pleasure all in one. Just a pleasure that's always given on his time. But maybe . . . if you play your cards right, you might just be able to him underneath you instead. 

Not just yet though. 

"Atta girl," he purrs. 

He moves himself off of you in a nimble blur - a complete opposite of the guy who had just awkwardly caught onto your hair earlier, to situate himself down on the floor. He doesn't wait for you to follow. Choosing to grip you by the hips and tug your body to face him, threatening to pull you right over the edge of the old polyester cushions and sending you ass first onto the carpet. But you manage to get a good grip on the headrest of the sofa to secure your seating. Which proves to be helpful when Farleigh hooks his fingers into the waistband of your pants and underwear in a single pull and begins to jerk them down without fanfare. His movements are impatient but fluid, working the fabric from your legs in fast rush, balling them up and tossing them across the room. He hardly gives you any time to process anything before he's grasping both of your thighs and spreading you open by hooking your knees over his shoulders. 

The tepid air brushing over the damp heat of your cunt is almost jarring and the gasp it pulls from you shudders across your ribcage. The anticipation welling up inside of you is already unbearable despite having done so little to warrant it; some dry humping and making out. But when it comes to Farleigh, you're damn near insatiable, and even the simplest things about him can set you off and dangle you over the edge. His scent, sweet and syrupy with the subtle notes of vanilla, but also warm from amber and cardamon. There's that spiced musk of cigarettes always on him too. It's never been a habit you've liked, a smell that you've ever enjoyed, but coming from him it still manages to make your mouth water. And then there's his eyes; expressive and bright despite their dark shade; dipping from what almost looks like a near black to a heated bronze, glimmering with flecks of copper and gold depending on the strength of the casted light. The sight of them pinned on you always has your body humming like a live wire and watching them skip around a room or from the faces of people, animated from the fervor of his passion or opinions never fails to make you flood with an array of emotions: peace, happiness, adoration. And then there's the sound of his voice and all of the various shades of it, from the soft, nonchalant rumble it takes during day-to-day conversations; that inflection that hits it in a playful spike when he's feeling particularly mischievous or sardonic; how low it can dip when he's got you malleable and eager underneath his palms, just like he does now. 

You love all of it. All of the various sides of him and all of his qualities and imperfections. You could blame it on the honeymoon phase. That it'll just all wear off once the freshness of your relationship has worn off and sunk in. But truthfully, everything about Farleigh has always set you on fire, practically from the moment you met him, and you don't think it'll ever go away. That the sheer amount of heat and desire that you feel for him - that the aching way that you crave him will ever dampen or dull. 

It's a realization that you've come to a while ago, but it still never fails to surprise you from the sheer scope of your feelings and adoration. Just how much you love all of him. From something as simple as waking up next to him every morning. Especially when he's asleep while the city is still sluggish and casted with the lavender and champagne hue of dawn, giving you time to admire him while he's relaxed and safe from all of his troubles. How expressive he is, all snark and sarcasm and sharp, quick-witted comments that never fail to get a laugh from you. He sometimes uses British terms and slang when he talks, and every now and again you swear you can hear a little bit of an accented lilt on his words when he speaks - especially if he's upset or impassioned in some way. And it even though it pisses you off to no end and you've given him plenty of ear full's about it, you can't find it in yourself to hold it against him when he's rarely able to keep track of time. Not even with red little watch secured around his wrist or the alarms on his phone; dates and schedules always seem to slip his mind. But he's gotten better. He's made and effort to try. And you love that little fact about him, because it's a part of him. Of who he is. And you love him so much that you wonder if it might just eat you alive and light you on fire. God, you really do love him. You love - 

"Farleigh," you nearly whimper. He snags the tender skin of your inner thigh between his teeth and lips, nipping and sucking to tease you and wind you up. 

"Be patient," he says, dragging the point of his tongue next to where you need him the most, leaving a blazing trail along your flesh in its wake." I haven't even started." There's that smug amusement saturating his tone, and you want to snap at him. To say something. But then he's slipping his hands underneath you to cup to the swell of your ass within his heated palms, slipping his thumbs towards the front of you to spread you open even more. You can feel how wet you are, smearing a little along your skin, leaving it chilled. Shame doesn't even register for you. You're already too worked up, too desperate. At this point you just want him to touch you. You know that begging him won't really get you anywhere. Not when he's like this. All you'll end up doing is stroking his ego, but you can hardly care about that right now. 

"C'mon, Farleigh, pleas-" you fully choke on your words when his tongue drags over you, dipping into your entrance before dragging up to your clit in a single stroke. Your legs twitch from the surprise and you can't help but reach out to grasp onto his hair, threading your fingers into his curls as your lungs swallow down a moan in a shaky breath. He's working his mouth against you like a man starved, like he's desperate to drink down your taste and savor every bit of you. Sure, you've been with passionate lovers in the past, people who genuinely enjoy the act of eating someone out, but the enthusiasm that Farleigh always has when he goes down on you never fails to shock you. It takes every bit of conscious effort not to cry out. You do your best not to be loud, reminding yourself that it's got to be around three a.m. by now and you have neighbors. You've already had to deal with that once before. A little after the first week you and Farleigh had moved in, he had made it his mission to fuck you on nearly every available surface in the apartment, and it's safe to say that you two had been a little louder than intended. It had made checking the mailbox compartment outside near the front desk and taking out the trash to the dumpster unbearably awkward with all the side eyed glances and glowers you had gotten. Not that you could necessarily blame your neighbors for being a little disgruntled. Still, it's safe to say that you'd rather not do that again. 

But it doesn't help that Farleigh seems to take your silence as some sort of challenge. You see it flicker in his eyes when you glance down at him, catching sight of his eyes from between your arms and the frame of your thighs. The look that glimmers in them is lethal and almost defiant, but it isn't something that you can brace for. He's always been talented with his mouth. The first night that you had hooked up on that stone balcony back at Saltburn you're pretty sure that he had damn near killed you with his tongue. And in the few months you've been together, somehow, he's gotten even more dangerous with it. He's had time to learn everything about you. How to take you apart piece by piece. What makes you twitch, and shudder, and scream, and you can tell concentrated glare that he has that he's going to do his best to pull you apart by the seams. 

He curls his tongue around your clit and sucks hard, making you jolt and then he's laving the muscle down to sweep it along your entrance. That's the only warning you get before he slips inside, dragging it slow to make sure you feel every bit of it. He's only just started, and that molten heat is already curling down your spine and building between your hips. His hands slip upward to grip onto your thighs, squeezing the sensitive skin there and mushing them against his ears. He moans against you, sending vibrations across your cunt that makes your toes curl. But even in the midst of the bliss searing at your body, your brain is still able to cling onto the fact that the noise he made almost sounded doleful. It's with a ragged gasp that you force yourself to pull your focus onto him, trying to center your attention through the low haze that's already clouding your brain. You can see the way that his eyebrows are pinch closed, almost like he's displeased or annoyed. But before that nervous flutter in your gut can become anything serious or unignorable, he's jerking away from you, forcing a mournful whine to spill past your lips from the absence of his mouth. 

"Far, what -" 

"Sit on my face." 

His request - command, really - comes out a little ragged. Breathless. And he all but flops back on the floor, letting his limbs sprawl out carelessly. But his eyes don't drift from your in his descent, they remain locked onto you with a sort of depraved yearning. For a moment your brain seems to lag, and in turn your body straggles behind, leaving you lie across the couch and stare. Too caught up in the sight of Farleigh. His breathing is already slightly labored, causing his chest to rise and fall, forcing air from his lips, which are glistening and smeared with your arousal. And you don't miss the fact that he's already hard, heavy and straining against the burgundy fabric of his sleep pants. Even with of tempting of image that Farleigh is spread out in front of you, there's still a question on your tongue. He must have been able to see your hesitance, something in your body language or a glimmer in your eyes because the look that he fixes you with is steadfast and maybe even a little exasperated. "Sit. On my face." He enunciates the words slowly, like he's giving each of them time to really sink in through your skull. 

That's really all it takes for the majority of your doubt to waver. Farleigh isn't one to ask for things that he doesn't want. And in your small time together you've already managed to build up a strong level of trust between each other, especially in regard to sex. It's enough to give you the confidence to slink off of the couch, kneeling yourself down over his legs to work yourself along his body until your hovering over his chest. But even with his anticipation palpable in the air, you still can't help but be a little bit nervous and the torrent of thoughts raving your mind does nothing to ease your concerns. 

What if you smother him? What you're too heavy? What if - 

"Hey." 

His voice gives you something to cling to, centering your thoughts with something as simple as its sound. His hands cup your thighs, gripping them with their warmth and caressing the skin with their fingertips. It pulls your focus downward where he gazes up at you from between the apex of your legs, eyebrows raised and the hint of an amused smile perking at the corners of his lips. "You've literally choked me before." 

The comment has a small bubble of laughter leaving you, despite its truth. He isn't wrong. It's not like breath play is a new development between the two of you, so you honestly aren't sure why the idea of sitting directly on his face seems so daunting. Just two taps against your thigh. That's all it would take, and then you'd be pulling yourself off of him in an instant. This really isn't unfamiliar territory in the slightest. It's just nerves, is all. That little realization, no matter how small, is enough to have excitement and heat burning through your veins; flaring and needy. 

"Ready?" You ask, trying to swallow down the faint flutter of nervousness in your stomach. 

The expression that flickers across his face is absolutely delighted, if not a little wicked. "Fuck yes," he pants, sending a warm puff of air across the slick that's smeared across your inner thighs. His hands clench around the grip they have on you when you adjust yourself forward and begin to lower yourself downward. Apparently, you were going much to slow for his liking because he's lifting his head up to meet you, tongue first. It feels as though it's been doused with liquid heat when it lashes along cunt, forcing a sharp cry from your lungs from the pressure of it. It's enough to catch you by surprise, making the muscles of your thighs twitch and give out. The full brunt of your weight would have collapsed onto his head if you hadn't managed to grab onto enough awareness to catch yourself with your palms. 

"Farleigh," You hiss, equally elated and scolding. 

All you get from him is a moan in response, but it sounds purely happy. Almost euphoric. The vibrations of it thrumming over you and the pressure of his nose nudging across your clit fully douses over what little reservations you have left. His fingers flex tight, and his strength bears down on your legs to fully seat you on his mouth, sealing the heat of it over you. If it wasn't for the fact that you're already supporting your weight on your arms, you probably would have doubled over from the sensation of it. It's completely involuntary when your hips begin to roll, seeking out the friction of his nose and tongue. You can't even find it in yourself to be worried about crushing him or cutting off his breathing with the wanton groans that start to pour from him in an uninhibited stream. It's almost as though he's the one . . . 

That trail of thought has you leaning yourself back, just barely managing the coordination and thought it requires to pull your weight into your thighs again and off of your arms. You turn your head to glance over your shoulder and the sight of his hand stroking up and down his cock is enough to tear a whine from you. Your cunt clenches around nothing, achingly empty while he laps and sucks at your clit, stroking molten bliss throughout your veins. You aren't sure when he had pulled himself free from his pants, and you aren't sure how you didn't manage to hear the low wet sound of his palm dragging over his length, slick with the flow of precum, but you're unable to pull your attention away from the sight of it now. 

You can already feel the pressure of that sultry heat coiling deep inside of you, dangling you precariously close towards that delicious edge. You mouth drops open in a silent whine when his tongue slips inside, lapping deep like he's trying to drink you down. Pleasured tremors zip up your thighs and stomach with each drag and suck from his mouth, threatening to make your eyes roll. Even then, you still have enough clarity and drive to want to return the favor. You reach behind yourself, managing a cursory glance over your shoulder just long enough to be able to grab ahold of his cock, just above his own hand. The position is admittedly a little awkward, and you can feel the strain of it simmering along the taut muscles of your back as you squeeze his length and twist your wrist over his heated skin. But it isn't enough to get you to even consider stopping. He whines against you at the feel of your palm on him, and his hips jerk up into both of the holds you have on his cock, desperately seeking out more friction with fervent thrusts from his hips. 

The two of you easily fall into a unanimous, rhythmic pace, and his hand brushes against your own as they both slip and down his girth. You make sure to squeeze the head of his cock with each upstroke, pulling a frayed moan and another flow of precum with each tug. The broken, sharp moans that spill from him help to hurdle you towards that rising, frenzied tide of bliss. The way that his tongue works inside of you makes your muscles seize, threatening to sweep you under quickly. A little too quick. You don't want this to end just yet. On just about any other time, it wouldn't have been a problem, but you don't think that you have more than one round in you tonight. Not with all of the dancing and partying you had done earlier; the emotions that had run; the small glimpses back into Saltburn and wounds that had reopened with just the small glimmer of a pair of Spirit Halloween costume wings. You wanted to feel him. You needed him. But you had to stop now before the smoldering warmth licking across every nerve and cell in your body lit up and engulfed you entirely. 

"Farleigh - wait." You gasp around a choked moan, trying not to mourn the loss, to focus on the heavy ache that racks through your body at the absence of his tongue. "Wait, wait, wait." 

Even though you can feel the hesitance in his grip he allows you to pull your cunt from his mouth, but there's a torn whine from his chest and for second he chases after your hips before letting his head plop back down on the carpet with a defeated sigh. There's a confused furrow set between his eyebrows, though you're sure he's getting mixed signals based on the way that you haven't paused or released the grip you have on his cock. 

"As much as I'd love to cum from your mouth, I need you to fuck me." It's then that you remove your hand from him.

"Okay - fuck - please, yes." He nods his head vigorously and the look that burns in his eyes is bright and eager. Suddenly the hand that he was jerking over his length is now on your waist, following as you begin to shuffle down his body until you can feel the crown of his cock drag across the heat of you, spreading your lips open around the shape of it and dragging along your clit in a delicious grind. You both moan at that little bit of friction, and as worked up as you are, you can't help but stay that way for a moment; slipping a hand down to grip the base of him so that you can roll your cunt over him with tight circles from your hips. His head tilts back against the floor and the expression that melts over his features looks tortured and dazed all at once. You take the time to just watch him; the mixture of his spit and your arousal that gleams over his lips like a perverted sort of balm; the short, almost labored gulps of air that shudder across his ribcage, only concealed by the fabric of his T-shirt; and you can see the light of the lamp glittering dimly across his hair, showing up like streaks and winks of amber and cinnamon. 

"Don't tease me," he complains, hitching his waist up to thrust the head of cock against you in a way that has you crying out in surprise; sending a smoldering shot of lust into your veins. Even then, you can't hide the amused smile that stretches across your lips. But that's as much as you bother to taunt him considering that you're already plenty of worked up yourself. You don't bother with any smug comments or sarcastic quips. Instead, you're taking ahold of him and lining him up with your entrance. And you don't bother giving him time to breathe before you sink down around his girth, taking him in with a single motion that makes him choke on an inhale. Maybe it's a little mean of you, not letting him catch up and adjust to the sensation, but the sheer delight that burns in his eyes lets you know that he isn't bothered in the slightest. 

That doubled with the flexing grip he has on your hips lets you know that he doesn't want you to stop. You press your palms flat on his chest, not enough to be crushing, but enough to provide you the leverage that you need to rotate your hips over him in smooth, deliberate rings that have you both quivering and plunged in an ecstasy that frays your senses and pulses over your nerves. He helps you along by meeting the shift of your hips, thrusting into you with deep, heavy strokes. He's insatiable, running his hands all over you. Like he's afraid you'll vanish, and he has to commit you to memory before you slip through his fingers. It has you dipping your head as low as you can without disrupting the rhythm you've built, and he props himself on his elbows to meet you so that you're able to lock your lips with his. You come together with the brush of teeth and tongue. It's clumsy and messy, but even then, it has nothing but pure want melting over your bones like wax and honey. 

The hold his hands have on you is greedy and fervent, like he wants to soak your warmth in through his palms and keep it to himself. He slips them underneath your shirt, coasting along your skin until they meet the swell of your breasts, kneading them with his fingertips. It's enough to have you keening aloud and fucking yourself on him like you'll die if you don't. Each stroke tips you that much closer to burning alive, and you can tell by the way that Farleigh's muscles tense with each grind and push from your hips, that he isn't that much better off either. You're both going to pull each other under into something alive and lambent until there's nothing left of yourselves but heaving, wrecked pieces clinging to each other. And you want nothing more than to singe and ignite with Farleigh. 

The thought alone gives you the motivation to work yourself on his length, squeezing the walls of your cunt over him, making him groan and swear under his breath against your lips. It has his head tipping back, severing the press of your mouth against his. But you don't have time to mourn the loss when he all but whines into the air, pitched and raucous like he's been overstimulated. Though the near bruising grip he has on your tits and the way that he vigorously meets your thrusts lets you know that he's far from at his limit yet. 

But you can already feel it, rising up and threatening to take you apart. You can taste it on your tongue; sweet and electric, and you chase after it with a desperation that might knock you into oblivion. And God, do you want that. It's so selfish, but you want nothing more than it to be just you and him, tangled together for eternity; caught within the push and pull of reaching limbs and constant desire and love; suspended in time - in this moment permanently. You try to warn him as best as you can, but it comes out as a jumbled pile of mess and a breathless sob when your body seizes tight around him like it wants to take him for all he's worth. It zips up over you like something white and hot and consuming. Stars blanket over your vision, sweeping over your limbs and spine with a weight that knocks you down into his chest despite the hungry grind of your hips. 

It's with a worn gasp of your name that you feel him pulse deep inside of you, filling you with a warmth that you swear settles so far in the pit of your stomach that it has you going boneless. The colorful array of stars blinding your vision blot out and fizzle like you're staring into a sky full of fireworks as pleasure fizzles and wracks through your body bone deep. You seize over him, clamping down on his cock one last time and you distantly register him hissing lowly like he's been wounded. You aren't sure how long you lay like that. Suspended and doused in pleasure and heat, floating above your body. But when you come to, Farleigh's panting beneath you, drawing in heavy lungful's of air while his fingertips run along your ribcage, tracing over the bone. 

You take him in. The moment: the weight of him still nestled within your cunt; the scent of his cologne and sex in the air and the sound of your labored gasps. This is peace, you decide. Just him and you. His heat, his presence. Him. 

"I love you." 

The confession hangs heavy. For a moment you don't register who spoke it. If it was you or him. But the tone of it, smoky and rumbling, paired with the vibrations of a voice thrumming throughout the chest pressed underneath your ear let you know who had spoken. It has you lifting your head to look at him, but his gaze is focused on the ceiling like he's afraid to meet your astonished stare. Your lip's part, ready to speak and assure him. To share a confession of your own and let him know that his feelings are returned but then his voice is drifting out again, cutting you off before the words even leave your throat. 

"I've been wanting to say it for a while," he says. Something flickers across his face, vulnerable but steadfast. "But I waited. I just . . . I didn't want you think I was saying it because of what happened - because I was hurt." 

The admission breaks something it you. It isn't angry but sympathetic and loving. It's warm - gentle. It guides you to prop yourself on your elbows so that you're really able to look at him, and it draws his attention enough to have his eyes flickering onto your face. "It's . . . I have regrets from that night. That morning -" he pulls in a deep breath to steel himself and you move a hand to cup his face, hoping that it'll help to center him somewhat. You feel a bit of relief when he leans into your touch instead of pulling away, and some of the tension in his muscles slip. His eyes suddenly seem as though they're pinning you in place; dark and certain even though there's the hint of tears welling up around them. - " things I would have done differently. You aren't one of them." 

You can feel tears of your own threatening to spill over. But these are of joy. You swear you might actually burst. That the sun might appear within your chest and eat you alive. "I love you too." 

The smile that breaks across his face is euphoric and light. Like the weight of the world has just been lifted from his shoulders from your words alone. It has you dropping your head forward until your forehead nudges against his own and you're breathing his air. His hands sweep up to cradle your face, guiding you to look at him. And for the first time in your life, you truly know what it means to be gazed upon like you had hung the stars in the sky. Like you had suspended the moon in its dark cradle and lit the sun alight. To be looked at like you are everything. "Say it again." 

"I love you," you answer without hesitation, and all you can do is hope that your own eyes convey the sheer magnitude of your own feelings. That your voice properly projects the scope of your love for him. 

"Again," he begs like he's been starved, placing soft kisses along your face. 

"I love you, Farleigh Start. I always have." 

You hardly get time to register the fact that he's flipping you over, swapping your positions with a single move until your back is pressed into the cushion of the carpet. Suddenly he's taking up the entire expanse of your vision; dark eyes twinkling and alive. The laughs that leave you both are chiming - almost musical. Airy and entirely carefree. His lips brush over yours and his breath coasts over the shape of your face, and the only thing that you can smell, and feel is him. The warm, soothing weight of his body and the familiar scent of vanilla and cigarettes. 

"We're gonna get a noise complaint one of these days," you warn without any bite. 

His eyebrows raise, and the smile that stretches over his face is entirely unapologetic. "If the dude with the piano hasn't gotten any shit yet then we should be fine." He runs his nose along yours, nudging you to angle your head so that he can brush his lips over yours. "Fuck 'em." 

You can't hold back the small bout of laughter that puffs from your chest, even as you playfully roll your eyes. "Fuck 'em," you agree just before you meet in a burning kiss.