#How to handle jealousy in relationships

[prefer-unique]

Signs of a Healthy Relationship: What Every Couple Should Strive For

#Love should feel safe, fulfilling, and uplifting—but how do you know if your relationship is truly healthy? In a world where social media romanticizes everything from grand gestures to toxic “passion,” it’s easy to confuse unhealthy patterns with love. A strong, healthy relationship isn’t about perfection—it’s about two people who are committed to growing together, communicating openly, and…

[m4jesty-love]

Signs of a Healthy Relationship: What Every Couple Should Strive For

#Love should feel safe, fulfilling, and uplifting—but how do you know if your relationship is truly healthy? In a world where social media romanticizes everything from grand gestures to toxic “passion,” it’s easy to confuse unhealthy patterns with love. A strong, healthy relationship isn’t about perfection—it’s about two people who are committed to growing together, communicating openly, and…

[gaym3bo1]

so far what i really like about the ex morning is the way they talk about being exes

like idek i can't quite articulate what it is yet but i think a lot of it has to with the fact that in most bls

1) the time a couple is actually in a relationship is less than half of the episodes and

2) having ex partners is often not even discussed or if it is, it's with notes of jealousy or just a short off-hand mention to state the sexuality of a character

[mars-ipan]

tbh i think the number one most important thing about jealousy in a relationship is trust. i think you can be as jealous as you want so long as you have trust in the fact that your partner would not lie to you and is devoted enough to you to remain faithful to you. jealous people only attack the people they see as “threats” to their relationship because at the end of the day they don’t trust their partner to stick with them. that could stem from a personal insecurity or having been burned before but at the end of the day the issue is not the third party but instead their own lack of faith in their partner

[hel-phoenyx]

I love being sure in my aromanticism because I managed to reach a state where I am SO CHILL about relationships

While all my polycule (either allo or arospec) are having an absolute TRAINWRECK (/lh) to get together

and while they're oblivious or pining or questioning I'm just like

"oh a change of dynamic name ? yea why not like it won't change much in the way I'm acting"

[joitotheworldstuff]

Comparing Jealousy in Friendships vs. Romantic Relationships

Understanding the Emotions That Nobody Talks About Enough Jealousy is one of those emotions that we don’t like to admit to, but it shows up in almost every type of relationship at some point. It’s messy. It’s human. And it can be uncomfortable to sit with. Especially when it’s happening in friendships, not just romantic relationships. Most of us expect jealousy to show up in dating, but when it…

[fayerie]

𖹭.ᐟ Gojo Satoru doesn't handle the silent treatment well.

If you ever decided to give Gojo Satoru the silent treatment — be it over a misunderstanding, an argument, or even a fleeting spark of jealousy — you’d quickly realize you may have underestimated just how relentless he could be.

He’d be on you like a curse on cursed energy. Clingy? You thought he was clingy before? No, now he wouldn't let you out of his sight for even a second.

Bathroom breaks? forget peace. A note would slide under the door within two minutes — starting off with a ridiculously detailed doodle of a penis (complete with shading), followed by a little face beside it: “:3”.

Then came in the scribbled apologies:

“Forgive me baby.”

“We’re too pretty to fight like this.”

“Silence hurts me more than your worst words, babe :(”

You tried — really tried — to stay mad. But it was hard when every note got more ridiculous. You found yourself smiling at the crude drawing. You muffled a laugh into a towel.

And though sometimes you sat pretending to read on the couch in order to ignore his presence, your eyes had skimmed the same sentence on that page fifteen times now.

He wasn't giving up. Not Gojo Satoru.

When notes and apologies didn’t work, he escalated. You’d be cooking and suddenly he’d snake his arms around you, pick you up effortlessly, and bury his face in your neck.

“Baby,” he’d whisper, voice low and teasing, “say something. Even a cuss word. I’ll take it.”

Later in the relationship, you got better at resisting. So he got sillier, more persistent. One day you came home to him dressed in an absolutely ridiculous frilly pink dress, poorly applied eyeliner smudged around his eyes.

“Rate my look outta ten, babe.” he'd say with that ridiculous grin all over his face.

But even you had your breaking point. Your ultimate weakness.

And Gojo? ohhh, he knew it.

Like now — you were trying so hard not to give in, standing there with your arms crossed and your mouth a thin, stubborn line. He slipped behind you silently, like the phantom menace he is, and nuzzled his face into your neck. His cologne — soft, clean, expensive and most importantly your favourite, would fill your senses.

His breath tickled your ear.

“I love you,” he whispered, voice gentle this time.

And that was it. The silent treatment died a silent death.

You smiled, helplessly, hopelessly in love.

mlist. -> here // divider by @/cafekitsune

[kbwrites]

Heated Waters

synopsis: being married is hard, being married without seeing each other is even harder.

⚝ content: Hiromi Higuruma x F! Reader, nsfw, bathtub sex, fingering, Hiromi neglects his wife, but boy does he make up for it

⚝ wc: 1.9k

“Yeah we do it pretty much every day.”

Satoru said, taking a leisurely sip of his water. His pale face alight with mischief, a shit-eating grin across his lips. His three coworkers stared at him in (jealousy) disbelief.

Suguru was the first to break the silence, wanting to save face “Everyday is a bit much, isn’t it, Satoru?”

Satoru chuckled, his blue eyes glinting with amusement as he watched his friend squirm. "What about you guys? How often do our married friends get it in?" His gaze flickered to Nanami, who cleared his throat and adjusted his glasses, his eyes fixed on the steam rising from his coffee cup.

“Twice a week, I suppose…”

Satoru's smile widened, clearly entertained by the responses he was drawing out. He then turned his attention to the oldest among them, Hiromi Higuruma, who was carefully straightening his tie, a subtle attempt to avoid eye contact.

“What about you, Higuruma?”

“Your wife, (Y/N) is a little younger than you, right? C’mon Higuruma-San…She a total freak?” Satoru teased.

Hiromi's jaw tightened, a flicker of irritation crossing his features as his grip on his coffee cup tightened. He took a slow, measured breath, his voice strained but controlled when he finally spoke.

“Please don’t talk about my wife like that.”

But Satoru, ever the instigator, didn’t back down. “It’s just us guys riiggght? And I can’t lie Higuruma, you’re one lucky guy. (Y/N) is a catch.”

Nanami nodded in agreement, as did Suguru, though both seemed to sense the discomfort growing in Hiromi. The older man could only sigh, his shoulders sagging under the weight of the conversation.

It was true—you were everything he could have ever wanted in a partner. Beautiful, intelligent, kind-hearted—his perfect match. If heaven existed, Hiromi was certain you’d be the only one worthy of it.

But long nights in the office, and early mornings preparing for court would take a toll on any relationship. The truth was… Hiromi hadn’t touched you in over a month. By the time he came home—you were fast asleep, and weekends were spent running the mountain of errands you couldn’t get to during the week. You loved each other of course, but it was hard. A month without feeling the warmth of your husband's hands all over your skin was starting to weigh heavily on both of you.

“You don’t have to answer Higuruma-san..” Nanami chimed in, sensing his elder colleague’s discomfort.

“Over a month.” Hiromi exhaled, the truth slipping out before he could stop it.

The room fell silent, the weight of his words sinking in.

“WHAT?” Gojo audibly gasps. “Your wife looks like THAT and you haven’t f—”

Suguru swiftly cut him off with a well-placed elbow to the chest. “Satoru… leave Higuruma alone.” The long-haired male warns. “Still, that is surprising.”

“I know I know..” Higuruma pinches his bridge. He wanted nothing more than to have his wife under him… on top of him. But the endless stream of work kept him trapped in a cycle of exhaustion. “I’ve been so busy I can’t even remember the last time I actually spoke to her properly.”

Suguru offered an apologetic smile. “Sounds like you need a break.”

“Sounds like you need some puss—” Nanami quickly elbowed Satoru in the chest before he could finish his sentence.

Hiromi shook his head, letting out a dry chuckle as he ran a hand through his dark locks, clearly frustrated with himself. “I appreciate your concern, guys, but I don’t see how I can take a break right now. I have so much work to do, and I’m the only one who knows how to handle all of it.”

“Higuruma-San. Satoru will take care of the paperwork for you.” Nanami suggested with a deadpan expression.

“HUH?” Satoru blurted out, clearly caught off guard by the sudden assignment.

“Yeah,” Nanami continued, ignoring Satoru’s protest. “It’s not like he actually does any work around here anyway.”

Suguru smirked, nodding in agreement. “That’s true. You might as well make yourself useful, Satoru.”

Before Hiromi could protest, the trio moved in unison—Suguru grabbing Hiromi’s briefcase, Nanami steering him toward the door, and Satoru sighing dramatically as he resigned himself to the task.

“Are… are you boys sure about this? I don’t want to burden you–”

“Nonsense! Go home and take care of your wife!”

Hiromi placed his briefcase by the door, his tie feeling suddenly too tight around his neck. He loosened it with a sigh, running a hand through his hair as he glanced around. The familiar scent of home greeted him. It was comforting yet bittersweet, a reminder of all the moments he had missed. The living room was tidy, the soft hum of the dishwasher running in the kitchen. You had clearly been busy, taking care of the house as you always did, even when he wasn’t around.

“Honey?” Hiromi calls out to you, his voice echoing slightly in the stillness.

Frowning, he shrugged off his jacket and draped it over the back of a chair before making his way down the hall. As he approached the bathroom, he noticed a faint light seeping out from under the door, accompanied by the sound of water gently lapping against the tub.

He hesitated for a moment, then slowly opened the door.

The sight that greeted him made his breath catch in his throat. There you were, reclining in the bathtub, your eyes closed, head resting on the edge as steam rose around you. The soft glow of candles illuminated the room, casting a warm, serene light over your features.

You looked so peaceful, so beautiful—that it almost hurt to look at you. The tension in his shoulders eased slightly as he took in the sight, but the guilt and longing only deepened. How long had it been since he’d taken the time to appreciate you like this? Since he’d been able to just… be with you?

You opened your eyes, gaze meeting your husband as he leaned against the door frame.

“Hiromi?” you murmured, your voice soft, almost questioning, as if unsure whether he was really there or just a figment of your imagination.

“Hey Honey…” his voice equally soft, as he took a tentative step closer. The warmth of the room seemed to wrap around him, melting away some of the day’s stress.

“You’re home early.” You muse, looking at him as you rested your arms on the tub. He doesn’t respond, just walks towards you with purposeful steps.

Hiromi stares down at you with half-lidded eyes.“The guys decided I need a break.” He paused, his breath hitching slightly as he continued, “Can I join you?” A playful smirk tugged at the corner of your lips.

“Only if you take off your clothes this time.”

A dry chuckle escaped his lips as he unbuttons his dress shirt, letting each article of clothing fall to the tile floor. As he finally sheds his boxers before settling behind you. You exhaled softly, the tension you’d been holding onto for weeks dissipating as you sank into your husband’s embrace.

Hiromi didn’t waste a moment, his lips finding the sensitive skin of your neck, placing lazy, lingering kisses along the curve where your shoulder met your throat. His breath was warm against your skin, his kisses slow and unhurried, as if savoring every second, every inch of you.

His hands weren’t idle either, tracing gentle patterns along your stomach, moving upwards to cup your breasts with a tenderness that made your breath hitch. He nipped lightly at your earlobe, his voice a husky murmur, “I’ve missed you… more than you know.”

“Missed you too ‘Romi..” Your voice trembling as the almost foreign heat began to pool in your core.

Deft fingers teased your nipples, rolling and pinching—eliciting a soft moan from your lips as your body arched into his touch. Your hand reached back, tangling in his dark locks, pulling him closer as his lips traveled down to your shoulder, his other hand snaking under the water to your aching cunt.

“ahhhh… s-shitt..” You cry out as Hiromi’s fingers slowly circle your swollen bud. His touch light, teasing.

“Thirty-two days… I’m so sorry m’love.” He mumbles into your shoulder as he slips a slender digit into your entrance. Your walls flutter immediately around the intrusion, as he gently pumped into you.

He adds another finger, curling up to the spot he had neglected all those weeks. He extended his thumb to rub your clit. You arch your back against him, feeling his cock twitch against your ass.

“Hiro…” you moan, reaching behind for him, but he bites down lightly on your shoulder.

“Not yet, pretty girl, want you t’cum first okay?”

He whispers as he feels your gummy walls clench around him.

He speeds up his ministrations, digits stuffing your cunt as your pussy throbs and squelches. Your whimpers echo around the tiled walls, water lapping around your bodies.

You feel the pressure building as each thrust of his long fingers brush against your g-spot.

“g-gonna cum!”

“Cum f’me sweetheart please—god… need it so bad.” Hiromi mumbles as he pumps even faster.

“a-ahh!” you cry as you reach your high, walls clenching as you cum on your husband’s hand. He removes his fingers from you, moving to gently circle your clit as you come down from your orgasm.

You both stay there for a moment, your heavy breathing the only sound occupying the space, mingling with the gentle slosh of water against the porcelain tub. Hiromi’s arms wrapped securely around your waist, pulling you closer.

Slowly, he lifted you, the warm water swirling around you both as he maneuvered you to face him, settling you on his lap. Your legs instinctively wrapped around his waist, your knees pressing against the cool sides of the tub.

You straddled Hiromi, your bodies now fully aligned, chest to chest. Your husband's dark, half-lidded eyes bore into yours, his expression a mixture of raw need and unspoken tenderness. He let his hands rest on your waist for a moment, thumbs tracing gentle circles against your damp skin as he took in the sight of you.

“I don’t know how I’ve stayed away from you for so long…” his voice breaking slightly as if the admission pained him.

Your breath hitched as you shifted slightly in his lap, feeling the tension between you intensify. Hiromi’s hands slid up your sides, his touch deliberate and slow, leaving a trail of heat in their wake as his lips finally found yours. The kiss was deep, full of hunger that had been simmering between you both for far too long.

His grip on your waist tightened as he deepened the kiss, his tongue sliding against yours in a dance that left you dizzy with need.

Breaking the kiss, Hiromi leaned his forehead against yours, his breath coming in shallow gasps.

“I won’t make that mistake again.”

Without a word, he rose from the tub, lifting you effortlessly into his arms. Water cascaded down your bodies, pooling at your feet as he carried you toward the bedroom, his lips trailing wet kisses down the side of your neck.

He laid you gently onto the bed, your back sinking into the soft silken sheets, but Hiromi didn’t waste any time. His gaze darkening as he climbed over you, his body hovering just above yours, his eyes drinking you in like a man starved.

“I’m going to make up for every second I’ve missed.”

[ariichive]

POPULAR

he didn’t realize how many people yearned for you as much as he did. and now that he had, the thought sat heavy in his chest, unsettling in a way he didn’t quite know how to handle.

cw: gender neutral, fluff, lighthearted, jealousy, slight stalking, reader has a lot of fans, secret admirers, established relationships, creepy letter in phainon's part

in okhema, there’s an npc named myrion who has a bunch of admirers lined up for her, so this inspired me lmaoo! once again, mydei's is my favorite... love writing for him

mydei₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

when you and mydei had gone on a casual stroll through okhema, he wasn't expecting to discover how well-known you were around the city.

verax leo was a mouthy lion, one that overheard many conversations in its time in the holy city.

you, wanting to stop by and see if the lion had any new riddles, were not expecting for the verax to use this as an opportunity to tease the prince of kremnos.

"the beautiful muse of the mighty prince, [name]! an honor to see you! here for another riddle?"

mydei’s brow arched ever so slightly at the greeting, golden eyes flickering between you and verax leo with a quiet intensity.

“beautiful?” he echoed, tilting his head in that slow, calculating way of his.

you sighed, already sensing where this was going. “don’t start.”

verax leo let out a deep, rumbling chuckle. “oh? have i struck a nerve, mighty prince? or perhaps… have i simply voiced what many already whisper?”

mydei's perfect brow furrowed even deeper, "explain, annoying lion, what you mean by that."

verax leo, suddenly sensing the thick tension, voice wavered as he responded. "w-well, i would not live up to my name if i didn't put this in the form of a riddle!"

mydei didn't answer, only narrowing his eyes at the golden mount. "in the city of okhema, there are many beautiful antiques and valuables. often sought after. but, there's one that's unattainable, and can only be spoken of in whispers my lion ears can hear."

you blinked, glancing between mydei and verax leo, sensing the shift in the atmosphere.

mydei’s expression remained unreadable, his golden eyes sharp as they bore into the lion. “go on.”

verax leo let out a nervous chuckle, but continued nonetheless. “this treasure is admired by all, longed for by many, yet it rests in the hands of one who walks among us.” the lion paused before continuing. “and oh, how the city wonders… will the one who holds it keep their grasp, or will another dare to reach?”

mydei let the silence stretch between them, his expression unreadable. then, with slow precision, he turned to you.

“is that true?” his voice was softer now, but laced with something deeper—something possessive.

you rolled your eyes, a hint of amusement in your voice. “it’s just a riddle, mydei. you don’t actually think—”

“but it is true,” he interrupted smoothly, gaze never leaving yours. “you are sought after. spoken of in whispers. desired. it would be foolish if people didn't see your beauty.”

you swallowed, suddenly hyperaware of the weight of his attention. “mydei—”

he exhaled, then, a slow, quiet breath, before looking back at verax leo. “and tell me, lion, what happens to those who reach for the unattainable?”

verax leo hesitated before answering, voice lower this time. “they risk being burned.”

a small smirk ghosted across mydei’s lips, though there was no humor in it—only certainty. “then let them whisper.”

and with that, he took your hand, lacing his fingers with yours before leading you away from the lion’s watchful gaze, leaving nothing else to be said.

as you walked through the streets of okhema, the whispers verax spoke of suddenly felt louder—eyes flickering toward you, smiles offered, murmurs shared between passersby. you had never thought much of it before, but now, with mydei at your side, his grip firm around your hand, it was impossible to ignore.

“you’re really letting that riddle get to you, huh?” you finally said, glancing at him.

mydei didn’t answer immediately. instead, his golden eyes stayed forward, scanning the streets, his expression unreadable. when he finally spoke.

“it isn’t the riddle that bothers me,” he said. “it’s the fact that it isn’t just a riddle.”

you sighed for the hundredth time. “it's—”

“how many?” he asked suddenly.

you blinked. “...how many what?”

his gaze flickered to yours, sharp and calculating. “how many people have whispered about you? how many have longed for something they will never have?”

heat crept up your neck, but you scoffed, shaking your head. “do you hear yourself right now?”

“i hear the city.” his thumb brushed over your knuckles absentmindedly. “and i hear verax leo. neither of them are wrong.”

you stopped walking, tugging his hand to make him face you fully. “and? does it matter?”

his jaw tightened for the briefest moment before he exhaled, as if weighing his words. “no,” he said. then, softer, more certain: “not when the whispers mean nothing to you.”

your breath hitched, but before you could respond, he lifted your joined hands, pressing a slow, deliberate kiss to your fingers.

“let them whisper,” he repeated, gaze locked onto yours. “as long as they know who you belong to.”

you gave his hand a small squeeze before pulling him forward. “come on, prince of kremnos. we’ve wasted enough time indulging a silly lion.”

he let you pull him along, but his grip remained firm, unwavering. “hm. i suppose. though, next time, i may indulge verax leo myself.”

you raised a brow. “oh?”

his golden eyes glimmered. “yes. i’d like to hear what else the city whispers—so i know exactly what to silence.”

you snorted, shaking your head. “unbelievable.”

but as the two of you walked away, hand in hand, the city’s whispers no longer mattered. after all, there was no need for speculation when the truth was already clear—mydei had already won the prize they all longed for. and he had no intention of ever letting go.

phainon₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

phainon was a man that took pride in his relationship with you, always taking the initiative to show you off. he knew you were gorgeous, and was extremely lucky to have you before anyone else.

he'd often hear praise of your name throughout okhema, be it the older lady that worked the market or a young kid.

but there was an extent to how much he could take, especially when it became borderline crazy.

phainon, call him petty, often discarded the various love letters that were made for you. he would read through them and laugh at their contents. these men knew nothing about you, and it almost made him feel bad.

almost.

there was no room in his heart for men that overstepped many boundaries; and the letter in his hand was a prime example of this.

'Dear [Name],

you have caught my attention, which is an honor not many can achieve. I see the way you interact with the people of the Holy City, but I cannot help but be curious; when will it be my turn? To see your beautiful eyes gaze at me? Must I do something extravagant? I watch you, the way your eyes light up when the infamous Chrysos Heir greets you. Tell me, is it that simple? There's no way you're impressed by his-'

phainon stopped reading the letter there, irritation already seeping deep into his veins. not only was the letter addressed to his quarters, but now he had the nerve to diss him?

phainon was so lost in thought, he didn't notice you enter the bedroom.

you tilted your head, watching him with mild curiosity. it wasn’t often that he was this distracted, his fingers curled tightly around a piece of parchment, blue eyes narrowed in what could only be irritation.

"what's wrong?" you asked, stepping closer.

phainon blinked, finally registering your presence. his expression smoothed almost instantly, slipping into something more composed—too composed.

"nothing of importance," he said, rolling the letter between his fingers before tossing it onto the desk. "just another fool with more confidence than sense."

your gaze flickered to the discarded parchment. "another love letter?"

he exhaled, crossing his arms. "unfortunately."

curious, you reached for the letter. phainon's hand twitched as if debating whether to snatch it away, but he let you take it. as you scanned its contents, amusement tugged at your lips—until you got further down.

"just a creep," you muttered, throwing the letter somewhere of no importance.

"perhaps i should respond," he mused. "it would be a shame if our dear admirer thought their words went unread."

"phainon."

"oh, come now, you should know me well enough by now." his grin was all mischief and indulgence. "i wouldn't be cruel. i'd simply... clarify a few things."

"by 'clarify,' you mean gloat."

"semantics."

you sighed again, running a hand down your face. "you're crazy."

"and yet," he echoed, mirth dancing in his voice, "people still test me."

he leaned in then, voice a quiet hum against your ear. "but if you truly wish for me to ignore them, all you have to do is say so. you know i'm weak for your word."

"i'm well aware," you giggled softly which made his cheeks warm in delight.

"though i do wonder, would a ring around your finger put an end to this cruelty?" he put a hand over his heart in faux pain. though he was teasing, you couldn't help but notice the truth in his words.

"only one way to find out."

anaxa₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

you were perfect, it was a fact any being with senses knew. more importantly, you were his perfect assistant. always there to assist him when he was busy with a student or to find his favorite pen.

it was these little things that mattered most to him, and he made sure your help never went unrecognized.

you watched anaxa busy himself helping his students with their research, the stack of thesis' on his desk going unlooked at.

"anaxa," your voice sweetly cut through the academic chatter of the classroom.

“i assume you’re here to remind me of some terribly dull obligation? my neglected paperwork, perhaps?”

you crossed your arms, unimpressed. “i was going to suggest taking a break, but clearly, your self-awareness is intact.”

his smirk deepened as he placed his hands on his hips. “why, of course. i am nothing if not entirely conscious of my own habits—though I do wonder how I managed before you.”

“poorly,” you deadpanned. “misplaced notes, forgotten meals, and a truly tragic reliance on last-minute efforts.”

he hummed in response, glancing at his student who wouldn't stop looking at you.

"i can help your students, you should use this time to look at the tablets and papers on your desk."

anaxa tilted his head, regarding you with an expression that was equal parts amusement and something more inscrutable. “how generous of you,” he murmured, fingers idly tapping against the untouched stack of work. “but tell me, dear, are you implying that my guidance is somehow… lacking?”

his tone was smooth, laced with that ever-present air of self-assuredness, but you knew him well enough to catch the teasing edge beneath it.

you merely raised a brow. “i’m implying that your penchant for procrastination is as legendary as your intellect. i don't wish to wake from slumber to you scribbling and muttering to yourself. ”

he exhaled a dramatic sigh, finally deigning to glance at the tablets and papers before him. “so cruel, yet so efficient,” he mused. “very well, if only to spare you the tragedy of watching me scramble at the last moment.”

anaxa retreated to his paperwork, leaving you with the student he was previously helping. you glanced down at his report, seeing unique sketches of chimeras.

"oh!" you exclaimed in excitement, leaning over the scholar's shoulder. "chimeras, i know a decent amount about them. i used to frequent the garden of life," before meeting anaxa, you wanted to add on, knowing he hated whenever you mentioned okhema.

the student perked up at your enthusiasm, eyes wide with curiosity. “you’ve been to the garden of life?” he asked, glancing between you and his sketches. “i’ve only read about it in records. is it true that some of the creatures there can work for hours?”

you nodded, a faint smile tugging at your lips. “some can, yes. their adaptability is remarkable, and they are super friendly!”

watching the student scribble things down, you continued. "even though they have a small and cute appearance, chimeras are very intelligent, understanding human speech despite not speaking it themselves."

anaxa smiled gently as he overheard your conversation, finding comfort in your voice. until he overheard another, more annoying conversation.

"[name] really is smart, no wonder professor keeps her to himself."

"yeah, it's a shame, if i had someone like [name]-"

anaxa stood up abruptly from his desk, the chair making a loud screech against the floor.

the sudden noise startled both you and the student, cutting your conversation short. you turned to see anaxa standing with an air of composed irritation, his pretty eyes sharp as they swept over the room.

“fascinating,” he drawled, his voice carrying just enough bite to make the offending students stiffen. “i wasn’t aware my assistant’s intelligence was up for public discussion—nor that any of you had the credentials to make such evaluations.”

a tense silence fell over the room. the scholars in question looked away, suddenly engrossed in their own work.

anaxa hummed, satisfied, before adjusting his cuffs with deliberate elegance. “i’d suggest you redirect your academic curiosity to something more productive. unless, of course, you believe gossip will earn you a place in my lectures?”

you sighed, rubbing your temples. this wasn’t the first time anaxa had taken offense on your behalf, though his methods were as dramatic as ever.

“professor,” you said, voice edged with both exasperation and amusement, “i believe your paperwork still requires your attention."

he hummed, completely ignoring you.

as he returned to his desk, you exhaled, shaking your head before refocusing on the student’s report.

still, you could feel anaxa’s gaze lingering—not on his paperwork or the students, but on you.

“professor,” you murmured without looking up, “if you’re going to stare at me all afternoon, at least pretend to be grading.”

[yongseungkim]

.

[followyourfleart]

Petty Grievances

blurb - You know your husband—five years of marriage has seared every one of Joel’s habits into your mind. The good, the bearable, and especially the parts you’ve learned to swallow down. So when he gets petty, you know how to manage it. But how much can Joel really handle when his wife is standing right there—and how much longer can he stand there when you look like that?

warnings - nsfw,  mdni  18+, jealousy, established relationship (marriage), petty!Joel Miller, slightly possessive!Joel Miller, slightly mean!Joel, no outbreak AU, fluff, slight angst, mentions of Sarah, some plot before the porn, DIRTY talk, orgasm control/denial, condescending, panty gags, finger fucking, oral sex (f receiving), marriage kink??, heavier (yet not fully stated) Dom/sub dynamic, light spanking, creampies (don't try this at home!), and aftercare.

One shot requested by: @ anyomous

wc: 14.4 k

You noticed it in the produce section.

At least, that’s where you started paying attention.

Joel was standing in front of the tomatoes. Arms crossed over his chest, brows low, jaw clenched tight enough to crack a tooth. You watched him stare at a container of cherry tomatoes for a solid minute without blinking.

You approached slowly, pushing the cart with your forearms as you scrolled on your phone. “What’s going on over here?”

No answer.

“...Joel?”

His head tilted, just slightly. But he didn’t look at you. Then he spoke. That flat, deadpan, bone-dry drawl. “Tomatoes look like shit.”

You blinked. “Okay?”

“They’re soft.”

“You don’t even like cherry tomatoes.”

Joel still didn’t look at you.

You stared at the side of his face. “...Are you mad at the produce section?”

Nothing.

Just a grumble under his breath and a slow pivot toward the green beans like that would explain everything. You stared at his back as he walked away—boots heavy, jaw set, posture stiff—like he was storming a trench.

Okay, you thought, weird.

You exhaled, rolling your eyes affectionately, and turned back to the tomatoes, tossing a decent-looking carton into the cart anyway. He was right, they did look a little sad. But they were for Sarah, and if she wanted soft tomatoes, soft tomatoes she would get.

You plucked up a few avocados next, giving each one a careful squeeze, mind half on ripeness and half on tomorrow. Joel had been buzzing around the house all week like a man possessed. Re-caulking sinks that didn’t need caulking. Replacing lightbulbs that hadn’t even burned out yet. He scrubbed the guest bathroom twice.

You hadn’t been much better. The linens were washed, the throw pillows fluffed and rearranged. You dusted the top of the kitchen cabinets, for God’s sake. You’d picked up her favorite shampoo, baked muffins for her first morning back, and cleaned out a corner of the garage in case she wanted to bring any boxes home from her dorm.

She wasn’t yours biologically, but it didn’t matter. She was Sarah. Bright, funny, stubborn as her father. She gave the best hugs and asked about your day even when she was swamped with finals. You’d loved her before you even realized that was what it was. And now that she was coming home?

You were nervous.

Ridiculously so.

So Joel’s poor attitude today was the least of your worries. 

You shrugged it off. Kept pushing the cart. You were halfway to the cereal aisle when he started doing it again.

You held up a box of your favorite granola. “This one okay?”

He didn’t even look. “S’fine.”

"Or do you want something else?”

“Nah.”

"...Raisin Bran? You’re always weird about fiber—"

“I said it’s fine.”

You blinked again. Slowly lowered the box. The tone was clipped. Not sharp, not angry, but weird. Off. Tired and dry and… cold.

That was when it really hit you.

He was being weird. Really weird.

Joel was never chatty, sure. You didn’t expect him to spin cartwheels down the aisles and ask about your day like a sitcom husband. But he did usually toss random things in the cart. Made fun of the music playing. Stood behind you at the fridge section and pressed his hand low against your back like he always needed to touch you somehow, even in the most ordinary moments.

But today? Nothing.

You watched him reach for a gallon of milk. Shoulders hunched, lips pressed tight, no eye contact. He handled it like it might explode if he moved wrong—slowly, deliberately, fingers curling around the 2%  as he dragged it off a wire shelf.

You grabbed the cart and rolled up beside him, not quite shoulder-to-shoulder. “Okay. Seriously. Are you mad?”

“No.”

“You sure?”

“Yep.”

The voice was outhern and flat, worn paper edges and deadpan delivery. He didn’t look at you. Didn’t so much as blink in your direction. Just dropped the milk into the cart like it might bite him if he held onto it too long.

You sighed. Here we go.

Joel wasn’t dramatic by nature—not loud or combative, not the storming-out, voice-raising type. He didn’t get into shouting matches or start fights for the sake of it. No, when he was pissed, it was like this.

Quiet.

Tense.

Internalized.

Five years married to him and you could spot the signs from a mile off: the long silences, the passive-aggressive sighs, the way he clammed up like someone stapled his jaw shut. He’d sulk for anywhere from 24 to 48 hours depending on the severity of the offense. And, of course, with how hot it was outside, it added about twenty percent to his overall grump factor.

It wasn’t malicious. It wasn’t even intentional, really.

It was just Joel. It was his version of cooling off. Letting his mind spin out until he could file his feelings into neat, Joel-shaped boxes. Then he’d let you in. After he’d suffered in silence for a while first.

You’d learned to give him space. Learned to let him take the long road back to you.

So, you just sighed, patted his shoulder as you passed, and said, “Okay. You do your thing, baby.”

Joel followed behind you like a mutter-shadow.

Not close, not far—just hovering within a four-foot radius like some brooding, ghost. You could hear his boots behind you, heavy and slow, the rhythm off-tempo like he couldn’t decide whether he wanted to walk next to you or not.

You didn’t look back.

You were wearing one of your thinner sundresses—pale yellow, soft cotton, the hem brushing high on your thighs. It clung in the heat, even in the fridge aisle, the air conditioning barely keeping up with the July temperatures that had been frying the pavement outside. Your thighs felt tacky. Your collarbone was slick. You could still feel the outline of sweat across your lower back, even though it had dried on the walk from the car to the store.

You crouched in front of the dairy case, cold air blasting against your legs, trying to find the right cheese for the pasta you were planning that night. You could feel him watching you—even if he was trying really hard to pretend he wasn’t.

You stayed there for an extra second, reaching slowly, letting your fingers graze a few of the blocks. Then, without looking back, you asked:

“Joel, which cheese do you want for your pasta?”

There was a beat of silence. Then, with no help to you what-so-ever: “Cheese.”

You blinked and turned your head slowly.

“You wanna say that again?”

He was leaning on the edge of the freezer case, arms crossed, pretending to study the shredded cheese.

You held up a block of cheddar. “Yes, Joel. Cheese. Incredible answer. Groundbreaking. But what kind of cheese?”

“You pick.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Oh, hell no. Last time I picked, I used goat cheese and you had one of your little fits.”

“I do not fit,” he growled.

You arched a brow. “Really?”

He didn’t answer.

Just crossed his arms harder, like he could make himself immune to the conversation by doubling down on the pout.

You looked him up and down. The heavy brow. The tight jaw. That stubborn line his mouth always settled into when he was trying to bury his emotions six feet.

“Sure,” you said. “Sure, you don’t throw fits. You just stop talking, glower at your dinner plate, and mumble about textures like you’re the one who did the cooking.”

That earned you a twitch. Not a full reaction— but a crack in the armor.

You rolled your eyes, sighed dramatically, and grabbed the block of aged white cheddar you knew he liked. “Fine. If this one suddenly offends your delicate palette, that’s on you.”

He didn’t respond. Didn’t even look at you. So you pivoted and veered into the home décor section.

You didn’t need anything.

But Joel wasn’t talking, so you were going to use the opportunity however you wanted.

You could feel him trailing behind you, still not talking, still definitely watching, filled to the brim with opinions he refused to say out loud.

You stopped in front of a little wooden sign that read Home is where the coffee brews and snorted. “We need this.”

Joel scoffed behind you.

You didn’t turn around. Just kept moving, hips swaying a little more than necessary, letting your fingers trail across a row of throw blankets you absolutely didn’t need. The fabric was soft, plush. Your fingertips curled around the edge.

“Hmm,” you murmured. “This one would look good on the couch.”

“We got three already,” Joel said, voice gravel-thick and grumbled.

You gasped and turned. “Oh my god. He speaks.”

Joel gave you a dead stare.

You sighed, amused, and reached up to adjust the strap of your dress. The movement lifted the fabric just enough to expose more skin, your hand brushing your collarbone lightly.

Joel’s eyes—subtle as they tried to be—dropped.

For just a second. Just a flicker of heat. Then gone. Buried again under that mask of annoyed indifference.

You reached for a vase you didn’t need. “Should I get this? Maybe put some fake sunflowers in it?”

Joel didn’t answer.

But when you gently dropped the too-expensive vase into the cart, he reached out with one big, calloused hand and nudged it so it wouldn’t tip over.

You saw that. You always saw it.

The little things. The quiet things. The kinds of gestures that lived in the in-betweens. Between I’m pissed and I love you too much to let you drop something and break it. Between leave me alone and don’t go too far.

You smirked to yourself, just a little.

“You’re lucky you’re cute when you’re mad,” you murmured.

He didn’t respond.

Still standing there like a statue. Still arms crossed, still jaw clenched, still eyes focused anywhere except you. He looked like he was trying to manifest a portal in the linoleum. Like he’d rather fall through it than talk about his feelings.

So you stepped in close.

You didn’t even think about it, you just moved on instinct. The same instinct that had been honed over five years of knowing his rhythms, his moods, the way he built walls only so you could gently scale them.

You lifted your hand and cupped his face.

Fingers soft, brushing over his scruff. His skin was warm—not just from the heat in the store, but from him. Always was. Like he carried a low burn under the surface, something he never let reach his mouth, but always lived in his eyes.

His body went still the second you touched him.

And then—after a breath—his arms dropped from his chest, as he slightly melted.

You tilted your head, giving him your softest smile. The one that usually melted him like butter left out in the heat.

“Sorry,” you whispered, brushing your thumb across his cheek. “I don’t even know what I did, but I’m sorry.”

Joel’s eyes finally met yours. They were darker than they’d been earlier. Brow drawn, mouth slightly parted—like he wanted to say something but couldn’t quite sort out what.

“You’re not mad at me,” you continued gently. “Not really.”

He still didn’t speak.

So, you leaned in and pressed a kiss to his cheek.

Just soft lips brushing rough skin. Just one warm second of closeness. You pulled back with another sheepish smile, fingers still cupping his jaw.

“Truce?” you whispered.

Joel blinked, then his eyes darkened. His voice came low. Tight. Gritted like he’d chewed through a whole bag of nails.

“…Don’t do that.”

You frowned. “What?”

“Look at me like that.”

Your hand dropped. You took half a step back.

“I—I was just saying sorry,” you said. “Joel, I didn’t mean to—”

He closed his eyes, pinched the bridge of his nose. His other hand went to his hip. Like he was physically restraining himself.

“Not really mad at you,” he muttered. “Ain’t even the point.”

You stared. “Then what’s the point?”

Joel’s jaw flexed. He looked at you like you’d just asked him to explain the concept of gravity. Something he felt every damn day, pulling at his bones, weighing him down—but couldn’t quite put into words.

The silence stretched. You stared at him.

And he stared at your mouth. Then your neck. Then your legs.

The hem of your sundress had hitched higher when you leaned forward earlier. You didn’t even realize.

But Joel did.

You reached for his hand.

That was it. That was the end of him.

He took a step back. Like he needed space. Like he was two seconds from doing something that’d get you banned from this store for life.

“Go get the soap,” he said quietly.

You blinked. “What?”

“Go. Get the rest of what you need. I’ll finish up here.”

“Joel—”

“Please.”

The look in his eyes stopped you cold. It was raw. Like he was hanging on by a thread.

Your head tilted, then you nodded slowly, trying not to let your smile falter. “Okay… yeah. I’ll, um… I’ll grab the rest.”

You stepped back, turned away.

You rush, but you didn’t look over your shoulder either. You didn’t give him the satisfaction of knowing you were even a little wounded by the way he’d shut down.

Like you weren’t standing in the middle of a home decor aisle asking your husband for a truce while he looked at you like touching you was some kind of mistake.

You grabbed the last few things you needed: soap, razors, paper towels. You took your time. Didn’t linger, didn’t sulk, but you didn’t exactly hurry either.

It wasn’t the first time Joel had gotten like this. And it wouldn’t be the last. Still, that didn’t mean it didn’t sting.

You knew his moods. Knew how he simmered. But today felt different—a little sharper around the edges. A little less I just need a minute and a little more don’t touch me unless you want me to snap.

You sighed and rolled your cart toward the checkout.

Register Four was open. You recognized the boy behind it—he was young, probably twenty at most. Soft brown curls under a baseball cap, name tag crooked, fingers fidgeting with the barcode scanner like it might bite him if he didn’t angle it right.

You came here often, usually alone. Joel was extremely busy during the late afternoons to do anything like this with you, but Tommy had given him the day off to go on a ‘real date’ for once. 

“Take your wife out,” he’d said with that crooked grin, “‘fore she starts thinkin’ Maria’s the only one in Austin who knows what wine is.”

Joel had grunted. You’d been excited. But now?

Now you were standing in line feeling vaguely rejected while the AC hummed and a nervous boy with too-kind eyes struggled to scan your bottle of dish soap.

He cleared his throat. “Uh—uh, sorry, ma’am.”

You smiled politely. “It’s fine, sweetheart. Take your time.”

He flushed immediately. His fingers fumbled with the box of pasta. Nearly dropped it. Caught it at the last second and blurted, “C-Can I ask you somethin’?”

You cocked your head to the side. “Sure.”

He looked like he was going to combust. Then, suddenly, in a rush: “Can I have your number?”

You froze.

The world tilted for a second, like the floor dropped two inches beneath your feet.

“Oh,” you said. His face turned crimson. You held up your hand slowly, showing him your ring. “Oh, sweetie—I’m married.”

The words left you gently. Kind. Soft. Not an ounce of mockery in your voice.

His eyes went wide. “Oh my God—no—I didn’t—I didn’t mean anythin’ bad—I just thought—y-you come in here a lot and you always smile and you’re so—uh, I mean—ma’am, I’m so sorry—”

You winced. “Oh no, don’t apologize. I’m not upset. Really.”

“I didn’t mean to disrespect—”

“You didn’t!” You leaned forward, laughing softly. “Hey. Breathe. I promise you, it’s okay. You’re sweet. You were just being brave, and I think that’s admirable.”

He stared at you like you’d just spoken ancient Greek.

“Some girl’s gonna be real lucky,” you said, giving him an encouraging nod. “It’s not me, but—hey, you’ll get there.”

The poor boy looked like he might cry. Or faint.

You reached into your purse to grab your wallet, hoping the small distraction might settle the tension—and that’s when you heard it.

The huff. Low. Dangerous. Behind you.

You felt him before you saw him—a heat behind your back, a presence too heavy to ignore. All broad shoulders and silence. The cart creaked slightly as Joel gripped the handle tightly. You didn’t turn. Didn’t say anything.

The boy  immediately blanched.

Joel didn’t speak. Didn’t smile. Just stood there, arms crossed over his chest, jaw set, eyes fixed like a sniper’s scope on the poor kid who had just made the mistake of his life.

You turned slowly. Looked up at your husband. He didn’t glance at you.

He was too busy leveling his deadpan, I’ve killed a man with a wrench stare at a twenty-year-old cashier who probably still lived with his mom.

The kid squeaked.

Literally squeaked.

“I—I’m sorry, sir, I didn’t know—I didn’t mean anythin’—”

“Oh my God,” you muttered, turning fully to Joel. “Joel.”

He didn’t say a word. Didn’t need to.

His presence was doing the job just fine. His glare was practically a physical force. You stepped between them slightly, trying to cut off the eye contact.

“Hey, baby. Relax.”

Still nothing.

The boy was now full-on panicking. “Please—I swear—I wasn’t trying to cross a line—I just—I didn’t know!”

Joel’s brow twitched.

You pressed a hand to your face. “Joel, stop.”

“I ain’t sayin’ a word,” he muttered.

“Your face is saying words. Loud words.”

The kid swiped your items faster than humanly possible. It was honestly impressive. You barely saw his hands move. Bags were packed, receipt printed, card already back in your purse and you hadn’t even finished sighing.

You took the bags gently.

“Have a good day,” you said softly.

The kid didn’t reply.

He just nodded, eyes still wide, and looked like he might call for security if Joel so much as blinked wrong.

You and Joel walked out of the store in silence.

The Texas heat hit you again like a slap. Joel loaded the bags into the truck while you stood there with your jaw locked and your arms crossed.

Finally, once everything was packed and the cart shoved into the return stall, you turned to him.

“Well,” you said dryly. “I hope you’re proud of yourself.”

Joel didn’t answer.

“You traumatized the poor boy.”

“He’ll live,” Joel muttered, rounding the front of the truck.

You followed behind, shaking your head. “He’s like, twenty.”

“He asked for your number.”

“He asked once. The second he saw you he died, Joel. Like he was gonna apologize himself into the floor.”

Joel didn’t answer.

You threw up your hands. “If he pushed after I said I was married, then fine—that’d be a problem. But he didn’t. He backed off. He was nervous as hell. That’s it.”

Still nothing.

He opened the driver’s side door, one big hand gripping the top of the frame as he climbed in. You swore you heard him mutter something under his breath—something that might’ve been kid shoulda known better.

You stared at him for a beat.

And then you dropped into the passenger seat, slammed the door, and exhaled sharply. “Just drive, Joel.”

The truck rumbled to life.

The drive was quiet.

Unbearably quiet.

No music. No conversation. Just the buzz of the engine and the whoosh of cars passing by. The windows were rolled halfway down, letting in thick summer air and the occasional wail of cicadas from the tree line. You sat with your arms crossed, looking out the window, sighing loudly every five minutes like it might crack the silence open.

It didn’t.

Joel didn’t so much as glance at you.

Your mind spun in circles the whole way home.

He pulled into the driveway, killed the engine, and got out without a word.

You didn’t follow right away.

You just sat there, hands limp in your lap, watching as Joel carried every single grocery bag inside on his own—arms full, face still unreadable, steps heavy against the driveway like he was stomping out a fire.

You finally got out once the door swung closed behind him.

Inside the house, you didn’t say anything.

Just slipped quietly into the bathroom, peeled off your sticky clotes, and stepped under the hot water.

And then you let yourself think.

Okay.

What the hell could you have done?

You rewound the day like a cassette tape.

Grocery list. The belt joke. Teasing him in the dairy aisle. Cupping his face. The kiss. Okay, maybe the kiss.

But he didn’t even look mad about that.

More like… tense.

You dragged your hands through your hair, water cascading down your back, and sighed. Again.

This wasn’t like a normal Joel mood. He was always slow to process—needed time, needed space, needed quiet. But this felt different. Sharper. Heavier.

More... personal.

By the time you shut off the water, you were still no closer to an answer.

You toweled off, still thinking, still analyzing, and threw on one of Joel’s old contracting t-shirts—the faded gray one with Miller Bros. Construction across the chest in chipped blue lettering. It hung soft and oversized over your hips, swallowing your frame in familiar cotton.

You slipped on a pair of sleep shorts. Didn’t bother with a bra. Your skin was still warm from the shower, hair damp, sticking slightly to the back of your neck.

You padded out barefoot.

Joel was in the living room.

Sprawled on the couch, one arm thrown across the back cushion, the TV flickering against his cheekbone. Some football game was on—low volume, closed captions flickering across the bottom of the screen.

He didn’t look at you.

Didn’t say a word.

Just sipped a beer, eyes on the screen.

You stood in the doorway for a minute, watching him. Your arms folded gently across your chest, the hem of your shorts brushing your thighs.

The silence crackled.

You cleared your throat softly. “Hey.”

He grunted.

“You gonna tell me what’s going on, or are we just gonna do the Cold War thing ‘til I forget why I like you?”

Nothing.

Not even a twitch.

You narrowed your eyes and slowly walked around behind the couch. Your steps were soft. Bare feet against wood. You leaned over the back of the couch, arms draping over Joel’s shoulders like a shawl. He was so warm. Stubbornly still.

You pressed your mouth to his neck. Right beneath his ear. Soft. Sweet.

Nothing.

You did it again.

Still nothing—except for the slight shift in his shoulders. Barely there. But you felt it.

He swallowed.

You smirked to yourself. Didn’t mean to. It just happened.

“Baby,” you whispered against his skin, “if you don’t tell me what I did, I’m gonna start apologizing for everything I’ve ever done.”

No response.

“I’m sorry for throwing away that old shirt you said you didn’t care about, but definitely cared about.”

Nothing.

“I’m sorry I fell asleep during Scarface. Twice.”

Still nothing.

“I’m sorry for making you late to that dentist appointment ‘cause I wanted to see how long I could make you moan in the shower—”

His head tilted slightly. Barely.

But you saw it.

And you grinned.

Bingo.

“I’m sorry for using your flannel to clean up that wine spill,” you continued sweetly. “I’m sorry for not telling you I bought more candles when you said we had enough. I’m sorry for giving the mailman banana bread and not saving you the corner piece you like.”

Still nothing

You leaned over the back of the couch, lips brushing his temple, hands sliding around to gently cup his jaw and turn his face to you.

“Joel,” you whispered, lips brushing his ear, “Please.”

He finally looked at you.

Expression flat. Deadpan.

Eyes dark, unreadable.

But there was something under it. A spark you could feel in your chest like a struck match. His hands didn’t move. His shoulders stayed tense.

You sighed dramatically and rounded the couch.

Then you flopped onto him—full weight, no hesitation. Limbs splayed, pressing him into the cushions like a weighted blanket of pure intent.

He let out a soft oof like you’d knocked the wind out of him.

Good.

You wiggled, settling in. Your leg slid between his. One arm wrapped around his middle. Your cheek found the curve of his shoulder, pressed against soft cotton and sun-warmed skin.

“You’re not that fragile,” you murmured into his shirt.

“Didn’t say I was,” he replied dryly.

You smiled.

Joel always gave you something when you got dramatic enough. It was like chipping away at a glacier with a spoon, but eventually, you knew he would crack.

You sighed. “You know this would be a lot easier if you just said what was bothering you.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re never fine when you say you’re fine.”

He didn’t respond again.

So you started stretching—slowly, like a lazy cat. Arms up, spine arching, your full weight still sprawled across his lap and chest. You felt his hand twitch slightly against your waist, like he wanted to grab you. Anchor you. Maybe throw you.

You smirked.

“God, you’re such a man,” you muttered teasingly. “All silence and brooding and long-suffering looks. It’s like being with a cowboy who doesn’t know how to write his own country song.”

You nuzzled into the crook of his neck. Pressed a soft kiss there. Then another.

Joel stayed still.

Stone quiet.

But you could feel the tension in his chest now. Could feel the way he wasn’t breathing evenly. The heat of his skin.

Still, you pressed another kiss to his jaw.

You pulled back slightly, leaned over him, peering into his eyes. “Is this about the cheese?”

Joel blinked.

You raised an eyebrow. “Be honest.”

He sighed. “It ain’t about the cheese.”

“Oh, thank God,” you whispered, deadpan. You threw your head back for dramatic effect. “Because if I have to listen to your slideshow on all your picky foods, I’m calling Sarah to mediate.”

That got him. A tiny—tiny—upward quirk of his mouth.

You leaned down and kissed it.

Soft and sweet.

You pulled back just an inch.

Then climbed farther into his lap.

Joel’s hands hovered near your thighs now. Not touching. Just there. Like he didn’t know what to do with them. Or he did, and was trying not to.

You kissed his cheek.

His jaw.

The soft curve of his neck again.

And all the while, you kept talking. Soft little murmurs between kisses.

“Remember when we first moved in and you said, ‘I don’t need throw pillows’ and now you’re the one who fluffs them before bed?”

No response.

“Remember when you said you didn’t want a dog, and now every time you see one on the street, you stop and talk to it?”

Still nothing.

“Remember when you said you don’t do pouting?”

You kissed the edge of his mouth.

Then pulled back and pouted.

Big eyes. Bottom lip jutted. Full dramatic effect.

He exhaled hard through his nose.

Not quite a laugh.

But not nothing either.

“You’re ridiculous,” he muttered.

You gasped, loud and dramatic. “You do still speak!”

Nothing in his expression changed.

But his eyes flicked over your face. Down your body. Then quickly back up, like he hadn’t done it.

You didn’t comment.

You just smiled—soft and amused—and stretched again, your hips shifting in his lap as you moved to loop your arms around his neck.

“God, you’re warm,” you murmured, half to yourself. “You always get warm when you’re annoyed. Or when you’re turned on.” You snorted. “Which, now that I think about it, probably means I’m annoying and hot.”

Joel blinked once. Slowly.

You ran your hands along the back of his neck, fingers brushing through the hair at his nape as you kept going. “Also, this shirt is very soft. I get why you wore it for ten years. Smells like you too. Not fair.”

Joel exhaled—tight. Controlled. His hands hadn’t moved, but the one at your waist was gripping just a little harder now. Not enough to stop you. Just enough to let you feel it.

Joel dropped his gaze.

You didn’t stop.

“Y’know,” you added thoughtfully, fingers trailing down the edge of his collar, “when I was in the shower, I kept thinking about all the stuff I could’ve done to make you mad. I even washed all the way behind my knees just in case you were mad about that.”

That got him.

A strangled sound—half cough, half growl—escaped his throat.

“What?” you asked, blinking innocently. “You’re always saying I never rinse right.”

Joel’s hand flexed hard against your thigh.

And then his head dropped.

Right onto your shoulder.

He didn’t speak. Didn’t move. Just slumped a little heavier, his breath hot against your skin.

You froze, heart thudding in your chest.

Your voice came quiet. “Joel?”

He didn’t lift his head.

Just sighed. Deep and long. A full-body exhale like he'd been holding something in for hours.

Then, low, gravelly, and rough:

“You really don’t know?”

You blinked. “...Know what?”

He turned his face slightly, forehead still pressed to your shoulder, lips near your collarbone.

You waited.

Silence stretched.

Then finally, slowly, he said:

“You were wearin’ that dress.”

You paused. “…What?”

He sighed again. Frustrated. “At the store. That yellow one. The one that clings. That makes your thighs—” He cut himself off, groaning. “Fuck.”

You stared at him.

“…You’re  being pissy at me ‘cause of my dress?”

He finally sat up. Met your eyes. And oh—his face.

That quiet, deadpan fury.

That exasperation laced with the deepest, dirtiest want.

“I ain’t mad at the dress,” he ground out. “I’m mad ‘cause you wore it without even thinkin’. You just—put it on. Walked around the store, leanin’ over, lookin’ like—like that. Like you didn’t know. And that little boy looked at you like he’d just seen God.”

You blinked.

Then you bit your lip.

But Joel wasn’t done.

“I’ve been hard since the dairy aisle.”

You choked.

He leaned in. Voice lower now. Rougher.

“And then you came home. In my shirt. No bra. Crawled all over me. Kissed me like it was sweet. Like you didn’t know what you were doin’. Whisperin’ all soft, makin’ those fuckin’ pouty faces. I’m sittin’ here tryin’ not to throw you over the back of the couch, and you’re talkin’ about ‘behind your knees.’”

Your lips parted.

He growled.

“And I can’t be mad at you,” he muttered, voice thick. “Not really. ‘Cause you didn’t do it on purpose. You were just bein’ you.”

You opened your mouth to respond.

But nothing came out.

You just stared.

Joel stared back.

His chest was rising hard now. His hands had slid to your hips. Gripping. Holding you still in his lap like he wasn’t sure what he’d do if you moved again.

“I hate how much I love you,” he said, voice like gravel. “Hate it when you’re cute. Hate it when you wear my shirts. Hate it when you kiss me when I’m tryin’ to be mad.”

You whispered, breathless, “So don’t be mad.”

“I ain’t tryin’ to be mad,” he snapped, fingers tightening. “I was tryin’ not to fuckin’ lose it.”

You blinked.

And then—quietly:

“…You want me to get off you?”

Joel’s eyes darkened.

“Fuck no,” he said, and the word hit like a warning. “You move now, I swear to God—”

You didn’t move.

Didn’t breathe.

You just smiled—soft and stunned—and whispered:

“…So I’m off the hook about the cheese?”

Joel scoffed.

But it came out rough.

More breath than sound.

Then, without another word—

He kissed you.

Hard.

Like he’d been waiting all day to do it. His mouth found yours with heat, with hunger, with the kind of urgency that made you squeak softly against his lips before melting—completely—into him.

His hand cupped the back of your neck, the other sliding over your hip to keep you grounded, pressed tight into his lap where you belonged.

You gasped into his mouth when he angled you just right, when he kissed you like he wasn’t your husband of five years but a man trying to earn you.

“Joel—” you breathed, between kisses, lips brushing his jaw, “baby, I—need to start the pasta—”

“Screw the pasta,” he growled, dragging his mouth down your throat, kissing along your collarbone like he was mapping it for memory. “Fuck all of it.”

You laughed. You couldn’t help it. It bubbled up in your chest, bright and breathless.

Joel kissed the sound right out of you.

“God, I missed you,” he muttered against your skin.

You blinked, a little dazed. “Missed me?”

He nodded, nose brushing along your jaw. “Yeah. I know you’ve been here, but baby… you’ve been everywhere but with me.”

Your brows drew together, guilt tugging already, but Joel just kept going, voice low and full of heat and heartache.

“You’ve been movin’ nonstop all week. Preppin’ the guest room, scrubbin’ the floors like it was a damn hotel inspection comin’. Stressin’ over the timin’ of the plane, re-foldin’ towels that didn’t need foldin’, runnin’ errands twice ‘cause you forgot the list the first time. Cookin’ like we’ve got ten people to feed instead of just one girl comin’ home for the week.”

His hand curled at your waist, grounding you.

“Runnin’ out the door before I can even tell you I love you.”

He was still kissing you, slower now. Softer. Like every word cost him something.

“I ain’t mad about the cheese,” he whispered. “Ain’t mad about that poor boy at the register lookin’ at you like his world was endin’. I’m just…”

He sighed.

And then held you closer.

“…selfish,” he admitted. “I want my wife.”

You melted against him, curling your fingers through the back of his hair. “Joel…”

“I want her mouth,” he murmured, kissing the corner of yours. “Want her laugh. Her hands. Her smart mouth and her soft skin and her stupid apologies about flannel.”

You giggled again, and he kissed that too.

“I’m yours,” you whispered.

“I know,” he said roughly. “And I still missed you.”

Your heart cracked open. And that was it.

That was the moment you moved.

You slid forward, slow and deliberate, swinging one leg fully across his lap until you were straddling him—knees planted firm on either side, thighs bracketing his hips.

Joel didn’t stop you. Didn’t move.

He just watched you.

His hands landed on your waist automatically. Like muscle memory. Like they’d been there a thousand times and still weren’t done learning the shape of you.

You lowered yourself slowly into his lap, letting the weight of your body sink against the growing heat beneath his jeans. The second your hips touched down, you felt it—thick, hard, there.

Joel’s jaw clenched.

But he didn’t say a word.

Didn’t make a move.

So you did.

You leaned in and kissed him. Open-mouthed and deep.

Not sweet this time.

Not soft.

You kissed him like you missed him too, like you hadn’t seen him every day. Like you meant it. Like every minute of silence between you had been a mistake you were now determined to fix with your mouth.

He let you lead, just for a moment.

And God, the sound he made when you pulled back just slightly, only to roll your hips forward, pressing down against him with a teasing grind—

A low, broken grunt spilled from his throat, half-pain, half-prayer.

“Jesus, baby…”

You smiled into the kiss. Innocent. Dangerous.

And did it again.

Joel’s hands gripped your waist like he was barely holding back. Like he was grounding himself. You felt the flex of his fingers through the fabric of your shirt—his shirt.

He pulled back, just an inch, breathing hard.

You shifted again, dragging your cunt over the firm line of his jeans, and Joel exhaled like it physically pained him.

He grunted and dug his fingers harder into your skin.

“You tryin’ to kill me?” he muttered again, trying to keep his classic deadpan delivery, but his chest was rising hard now, breath shallow.

You tilted your head, smiling innocently, biting the corner of your lip like you weren’t absolutely soaked and unraveling already.

“Why?” you asked sweetly. “What am I doing?”

He gave you that look—half narrowed eyes, half disbelief—like he could see straight through you.

You didn’t give him time to answer.

Just leaned in. Pressed your mouth to his.

Soft, at first.

Just a brush.

Then firmer, deeper—trailing kisses along his jaw, down the column of his throat, until you reached the warm patch of skin behind his ear that always made him twitch. You kissed it slowly, let your breath spill over it.

“You said you wanted my mouth,” you whispered. “Just trying to give it to you.”

Joel groaned. Just one low, wrecked sound from deep in his chest, like it cost him something.

You felt his grip slide lower, from the swell of your hips to the backs of your thighs, and then he rocked you forward for you.

One, slow drag.

Denim on cotton. Pressure exactly where you needed it.

Your breath hitched. “Oh—”

“Yeah?” he muttered, voice rough and fraying. “Then give it to me, baby. Just like that. Keep grindin’. Nice and slow.”

You whimpered. Didn’t mean to. Couldn’t help it.

So you did what he asked. What he always made sound like a command, even when he spoke soft.

You rolled your hips against him again. And again.

Each pass sent sparks shooting down your spine. Each brush of friction left you clinging a little tighter, breathing a little harder.

The TV flickered in the background, some commentator still droning about pass coverage or something equally irrelevant.

But Joel didn’t look away from you. Not once.

He kissed you again—messier now, more desperate.

His mouth opened against yours, tongue curling deep, hand still anchored around your thigh, keeping you pressed tight. Like if he let go, the earth might shift.

“This what you wanted?” he murmured, lips brushing yours between kisses. “Crawlin’ all over me in that damn shirt… knowin’ I was tryin’ to stay mad?”

You huffed out a breathless laugh, hips still moving, pace steady and deliberate.

“I was trying to apologize.”

“Tryin’ my ass,” he growled, biting the edge of your jaw. “You were makin’ it worse. Bein’ all soft and sweet… kissin’ on me like you didn’t know what you were doin’.”

You leaned in close again, breath mingling.

“Didn’t I say I was yours?”

Joel looked at you then.

Really looked.

And it hit you—like a wave crashing in all at once.

That stare.

That devotion.

That deep, simmering heat that lived behind his eyes, like he was fighting it every second just to keep it contained.

“Yeah,” he whispered, voice cracking. “You did.”

His hand slid up under the hem of your shirt, fingertips dragging slow and reverent across your stomach, then higher, like he was relearning every inch of you.

“Still tryin’ to stay mad,” he muttered, tone dry but unraveling. “Not doin’ a very good job of it.”

You grinned. Pressed your hips to his again. Harder this time.

Joel hissed through his teeth, hands tightening on your waist for just a second. Like he had to remind himself not to flip you over right then and there.

Because the truth was—he was just as mad. At himself. At the way he always snapped at you first before ever admitting how he felt. At how you knew how to twist him up without even trying. At how good you looked in his damn shirt.

At how fucking much he wanted you.

“Up,” he grunted.

“What?”

He didn’t explain. Just grabbed the hem of the shirt and tugged it up over your head, arms slightly rough but careful, like muscle memory had him treating you like something expensive.

You didn’t even get a second to tease him for it. Because the second your shirt hit the floor, he was on you.

Mouth hot. Open.

His mouth locked around your nipple like he’d missed it. Like it was a lifeline.

“Jesus—Joel—”

His only response was a low groan. One hand splayed between your shoulder blades to keep you pressed to him, the other still gripping your waist like he didn’t trust you not to float away.

The couch creaked beneath both of you. That ugly old brown one you always said he should’ve gotten rid of when you first moved in. But right now? The way he had you anchored in his lap, thighs spread, chest bare under his mouth—you would’ve worshipped that goddamn couch if it meant you got to stay right here.

He switched sides, mouth greedy now, and your head dropped back as your nails dug into his shoulders. He sucked, slow and deep, then grazed his teeth along the sensitive skin, a groan vibrating low in his throat when your hips rolled again—instinct, need, love, all tangled together.

He pulled back just enough to look at you.

Hair tousled, lips red, eyes feral.

You barely had time to register the look before he moved—swift and deliberate. One arm looped around your waist, the other shifting beneath your thigh, and suddenly you were airborne for half a second—

Then thud.

You yelped, a high, startled sound, as your back hit the couch cushions, Joel’s weight braced above you, one hand cupping the back of your thigh as he hiked your leg up and perched it over the armrest like it was his position and his idea.

Your hands flew to his chest, more out of instinct than resistance, heart thudding as he looked at you with that flat, unreadable Miller stare. The one that meant he was thinking something loud but saying absolutely nothing.

“Joel,” you warned, already breathless. “I just showered.”

He didn’t even blink.

“Yeah.”

His fingers were already sliding under the waistband of your shorts.

“And the game’s still on,” you added quickly, trying to hold onto a sliver of reality as your shorts started disappearing, Joel tugging them down like they were offending him.

Joel didn’t answer.

Just stared at you, flat and unreadable, that slow blink that always made you feel like he was assessing something. Whether he was going to tease you or be straight forward. Go gentle or go mean.

Then—his brow lifted. Just a slight arch, subtle, but smug in that way that made your stomach twist.

Your hips jolted as he tugged your shorts the rest of the way down—slow, unhurried—and left your panties on. Thin lace, soaked clean through. Like it was part of your punishment.

You shifted, instinctively trying to lift for him, to help.

He didn’t let you.

“Stay,” he muttered, pressing one broad palm flat on your hip. His other hand slid between your thighs, spreading them open with firm, heavy pressure, until you were open for him.

Then his mouth.

Hot breath dragging over fabric that felt thinner by the second. His tongue didn’t touch skin. It ran slow and warm across the center of you, pressing the soaked material against your aching clit.

You whimpered. The sound came out high and needy, and he smiled.

“Joel—” you gasped.

“You said the game’s still on,” he said, voice low and infuriatingly calm. His eyes flicked up to meet yours. “So we’re watchin’. Both of us.”

And then—finally—his tongue. Right through the center of you. A slow, deliberate drag that made your eyes roll back in your head. Your thighs clenched around his shoulders, hips bucking before you could stop them.

He paused. Pulled back. Looked at you with that lazy, lethal stare. “Don’t move,” he said, quiet. Dangerous. “Or I stop.”

You swallowed hard. “This is insane.”

Joel didn’t reply. He never did when he was in this mood—this controlled, razor-sharp space he sank into like second nature. He just bent again, licked over you with slow, measured cruelty. Tongue steady, pressure maddening. Over. And over.

You were soaked. The lace clung to you, sticky and wet. And he didn’t move it. Didn’t need to. He was teasing you through it, sucking at it like it was skin, like he had all day.

“Joel,” you whispered, hips twitching again.

“Watch the game,” he murmured, lips brushing right against your clit, his voice muffled by your body. “You’re fallin’ behind.”

You blinked at the screen, trying to focus, but everything was heat and static and him.

“What’s the down?” he asked.

You froze. “What?”

Another flick of his tongue—sharper this time. Precise. You choked on a moan.

“I said,” he said again, tone cooling, “what’s the down, baby?”

Your brain scrambled. “Uh—third?”

His brow quirked. “You guessin’?”

You hesitated. “Maybe?”

Joel sat back on his heels. Fingers hooked in the side of your panties, tugging them aside with infuriating gentleness. He leaned in again. One long, hot lick—bare skin now. Bare clit. Bare torture.

Then he pulled away. Sat there. Breathing you in. Looking at you like you were a meal he’d decided to starve just because he could.

You shook, panting. “Joel—”

“You don’t guess,” he said flatly. “You either know, or you don’t get to come.”

You whimpered. Full-body shiver. Nails curled into the couch cushion. Every muscle screamed for friction, for movement.

“Focus,” he said softly. Not kindly. “Get it right, or I’ll make you beg for more than just permission.”

You turned to the screen, vision blurred with tears and need. Some play was happening. You weren’t even sure what anymore.

Joel’s tongue met you again. Gentle, coaxing, relentless. And then—

“Possession?”

“Colts,” you gasped.

He hummed. A reward. His tongue flattened against your clit, slow circle, firm pressure. Just enough to make your breath hitch. You moaned, moved just barely, and he immediately pulled back.

“Nope.”

“What? Joel—!”

“You moved.”

“I twitched.”

“You moved,” he repeated. Cold. Decided. “Better learn the difference.”

You covered your face with your hands. “You’re evil.”

“I’m patient.” He brushed a single finger over your thigh. “That’s worse.”

You whimpered, again. And he didn’t stop.

The next stretch was agony.

He mouthed at you—sometimes slow, sometimes fast, always calculated. Just when your hips rose, just when your chest stuttered with that telltale gasp, he’d pause.

Then came the questions.

Flag on the play—what for?

Which quarter?

What yard line?

If you answered right—he’d reward you. Tongue firm and dragging. The kind of lick that made you sob.

If you answered wrong—he went silent. Kissed all around your thighs, letting his stubble drag out whimpers and pleads.

He didn’t speed up. He didn’t give in. Joel Miller had you mapped. He knew every twitch. Every inhale. Every desperate, clenching muscle. 

He kept you on the edge for what felt like hours—until your eyes were glassy and your thighs were trembling. Until your nails had torn at the cushion. Until your chest was heaving and your panties were ruined, and you weren’t even watching the game anymore, just listening—but you couldn’t tear your eyes away from him. From his mouth. From his tongue tormenting you.

“Joel,” you begged, voice cracking open under the weight of it. “Please—please, I’m—”

“Score?”

Your mind scrambled, hands fisting the cushions. “Uh—24–21?”

Joel looked up at you from between your thighs. Smug. Ravenous. His mouth slick and glistening, chin wet with your arousal. His eyes held that gleam—that sharp, satisfied gleam that made your stomach flip.

“Good girl.”

And then he devoured you.

No teasing. No slow build. No more cruel, lingering licks meant to test your patience. He shoved your panties properly aside, and dropped his mouth to your cunt like a man starved—like he’d waited all damn day to rip into you and was finally cashing the check.

Your breath caught, then tore loose in a sob. You cried out, voice shattering in your throat as heat rolled over your body in waves. Hands flew to his hair—those thick strands you loved to grip—fingers curling in deep. Your thighs twitched around his head, instinctively trying to pull him closer, to anchor yourself to something as he wrecked you.

And fuck, did he wreck you.

His tongue slid through your folds with obscene pressure—long, deliberate strokes that left you soaked and quaking. Like every lick was a reminder: this was his. You were his.

His beard scraped deliciously against your thighs, the rough drag a perfect contrast to the wet heat of his mouth. His nose nudged against your clit with every stroke.

You couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think.

Joel groaned into you like the taste of you was everything. His hands gripped your thighs tight—bruising tight—thumbs digging in, keeping you open, helpless, exactly where he wanted you.

“Sound real sorry now,” he growled against your cunt, voice shredded and low. His tongue never stopped moving. “Should I keep goin’? Or you wanna get smart again?”

You sobbed. You sobbed, the sound barely human. Your legs clamped around him and your hips bucked wildly against his face.

“N-no—please—don’t stop—please—”

Joel laughed. A dark, amused sound, muffled by your cunt. He sounded pleased. Too pleased.

Then he flattened his tongue over your clit and dragged it slow. Long. Torturous. Like he knew how close you were. Like he could feel it in your thighs, in the twitch of your hips, in the broken way you moaned.

“Thought so,” he muttered.

And then you broke.

Your orgasm slammed into you like a huge wave. There was no slow climb. It hit hard—violent in its release—like your body had finally quit holding back and gave itself over to him completely.

Your mouth dropped open in a silent scream before the sound ripped free—raw and wrecked. You came with your whole body—hips jerking, thighs clenching around his head, back arching off the couch. Fingers yanked hard in his hair, like that was the only thing keeping you from flying apart.

And Joel didn’t stop.

Didn’t budge.

He kept his mouth on you like it was his right, his job, his revenge. Licking you through it, dragging it out until your thighs trembled and your hips jolted with every aftershock.

When he finally pulled back, your thighs were shiny. And you were boneless, panting like you’d just run a marathon barefoot.

Joel sat back on his heels, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, lick the rest off his lips, and gave you that look. The one that was from a smug husband who just made you weak from one orgasm.

“You cryin’?” he asked, brow arched. “Or just finally quiet?”

You blinked up at him, tears spilling from the corners of your eyes. Your voice was wrecked. “Need more—”

He tilted his head. “More?”

You nodded desperately. “Yes—please, Joel, I—fuck—I need it—”

He looked at you for a long, quiet second. Then glanced at your ruined panties, still moved off to the side, completely soaked through. Then back at your face.

He  slid them off slowly with a firm grip on your ankle. They made a quiet, wet sound as they peeled off your cunt.

“Should make you wear these around the house after I’m done,” he muttered. “Let you feel how soaked you get beggin’ for it. Make you sit in your own mess while I watch somethin’ nice.”

You whimpered.

Joel smirked again. “What, that too much?”

You shook your head. “No—no, I want it.”

He leaned in, hand sliding up your bare thigh, settling heavy on your pelvis, thumb brushing between your folds where you were still sensitive and trembling.

You gasped. Twitched. Your hips bucked helplessly into his touch.

“Goddamn,” he murmured. “Look at you. Blissed out and still greedy.”

You whined.

And Joel—dear and evil—laughed low in his throat.

“C’mon, baby. Spread these legs wider. I ain’t done teachin’ you your lesson yet.”

You did as told. Because how could you not?

Your hips tilted, thighs falling open, and the pads of his fingers got better access as he barely brushed where you were soaked, and your hips jumped.

You let out a shuddery breath, squirming beneath his touch. “Please—”

“Please what?”

You swallowed, tried to speak, but your voice cracked in the middle of it. “I—I want your cock.”

That earned a low hum.

Joel tilted his head, eyes sweeping over you with that unreadable expression he wore when he was especially unimpressed.

“Yeah? Wantin’ don’t mean gettin’,” he muttered. “Don’t remember sayin’ you could ask for anythin’.”

Your cheeks burned. “Joel, I—I need—”

He cut you off with a sharp glance, fingers sliding between your folds in one slick.

“I said,” he growled softly, “you take what I give you. And you stay damn quiet.”

You whimpered again. Loud. Desperate.

And that was it. That was enough.

He reached behind him without warning, took your panties in his free hand, and before you could even react, he stuffed them into your mouth.

You gasped, muffled immediately, lips stretched around the fabric. You could taste yourself—warm, musky, sharp from where he'd worked you over earlier—and the moan that escaped your throat was pathetic.

Joel grinned. Not wide. Not gleeful. Just slow and knowing.

His hand cupped your jaw for a moment, thumb dragging across your cheek, eyes sharp as they bore into yours.

“Jesus,” he murmured. “Gettin’ worked up over your own mess. Filthy girl.”

You nodded because it was all you could do. Your thighs tried to rub together restlessly. Your hands twitched at your sides, unsure where to go, what to do with yourself.

Joel got up. Shifted his weight to sit back onto the couch next to you.

Then, without warning, he reached for you and dragged you into his lap. Strong arms wrapped around your waist and hauled you easily until your spine was pressed against his chest, your legs straddling his denim-covered thighs, your ruined panties still in your mouth.

The couch groaned under both your bodies, the old leather protesting with every shift—but you didn’t hear it. Didn’t care. Your brain was mush, your limbs boneless, your mouth still slack and wet around the wad of fabric he’d stuffed there minutes ago.

And then—Joel’s hand again.

Sliding down between your thighs like it belonged there. Like it had never left.

Two fingers pushed into you without warning. Thick. Slick. Deep. The stretch punched the air from your lungs and sent your hips jerking reflexively.

Your cry was strangled by the fabric in your mouth.

“Uh-uh.” His voice was low, right at your ear, slow and steady like he wasn’t the one wrecking you open on his lap. “You stay still.”

But you couldn’t.

Your hips moved anyway, rocking helplessly against his hand, the wet sounds obscene in the space between you.

His fingers curled inside you, just the right pressure against that devastating spot that made your back arch and your knees quake.

You choked on a moan, muffled and desperate.

“Goddamn,” he rasped, lips brushing your jaw as he fucked his fingers into you harder. “Can feel you clenchin’ already. Barely inside and you’re already fallin’ apart on me.”

You pressed your head back against his shoulder, trembling all over, thighs spread wide over his lap. The rough fabric scraped your skin. Your hands clawed at the front of his jeans, grabbing at anything, his belt buckle, waistband, seams, anything to keep you sane.

His pace quickened. His fingers drove up into you, every stroke sharp, confident, filthy. His palm was soaked, smacking wetly with each thrust, the heat of your arousal smeared over your thighs, your folds, your inner legs.

His thumb started to brush your clit. Fast. Tight little circles.

Your whole body jolted.

“Fuckin’ greedy thing,” he murmured, lips dragging against your neck. “Thought you were done cryin’. Thought I’d worn you out.”

You whimpered around the gag, back arching. Every muscle tight, electric.

Joel grunted softly, like the sound of you unraveling turned him on more than anything. “Dumb question,” he muttered. “Course you got more in you.”

You were ruined. The couch cushions beneath you were damp, and the mess between your legs was shameful, slick, and constant. Your thighs were shaking. Your jaw ached from the gag. Your body burned—hot and tight and strung out.

His arm stayed locked around your waist, holding you still, keeping you open. His fingers fucked into you relentlessly, slick and punishing, while his thumb dragged over your clit with merciless precision.

And then—

You came.

So fast, it blindsided you.

That coil inside you snapped, sharp and raw, and your whole body convulsed in his arms. Your thighs slammed shut around his hand, your spine bowed, and the scream that tore from your throat was strangled by cotton and spit.

You shattered—mouth wide, tears spilling, muscles spasming.

“Mm. There she is,” he said, low and warm like you hadn’t just come like you were dying. “Knew you had another one in you.”

You whimpered, boneless now. Arms limp. Head heavy against his shoulder.

His fingers slipped out slow, wet and obscene.

You let out a broken sob through your gag, and Joel just grinned, pressing a kiss to your jaw.

He shifted behind you—gentle now. No more teasing pressure. No more mean streak. Just a warm, solid wall of comfort at your back.

His big hand rested low on your belly, spread wide, thumb tracing little slow, aimless circles over sweat of your skin.

Protective.

Sweet.

Possessive.

He pressed a kiss to your shoulder. Bare skin, damp with sweat. His nose nudged you after, slow and unhurried.

One kiss. Then another.

Then one right behind your ear, soft enough to make your heart hiccup. You made a small sound, muffled by the panties still stuffed in your mouth.

Joel heard it.

“‘S’alright,” he murmured. “I got you. Just breathe a sec.”

You did. Or tried to. Inhale in. Exhale out. His scent wrapped around you—soap and salt and the heat of his skin. The TV was still on, some post-play analysis murmuring in the background, but it felt far away. Fuzzy. Like it didn’t matter anymore.

Joel reached up. Fingers brushed along your jaw. Then gently, he pulled your ruined panties from your mouth.

They came free with a soft, wet sound, and he set them aside without a word. You breathed in deeper, lips tingling, tongue dragging over them instinctively.

“You with me now?” he asked, pressing another kiss to the shell of your ear. “Hm?”

“Yeah,” you whispered, voice rough.

You felt his smile more than saw it—small, private. His chin dipped down, and he kissed your cheek. The side of your neck. Then your shoulder again.

“Did good for me,” he murmured.

Your lip quivered. “You were so mean.”

That earned a low sound in his throat—somewhere between a laugh and a hum. You could hear the apology in it, even if he didn’t say it aloud.

“Was I?” he asked. “Don’t remember hearin’ any complaints.”

“You gagged me with my own panties.”

He kissed the side of your mouth.

“You whined so damn loud, baby. Was the only way to shut you up.”

You huffed—weakly. No real fight in it.

“I was desperate.”

“You were perfect,” he said.

That quieted you. Completely. Because even with your hair stuck to your forehead, your thighs slick and trembling—you believed him. You felt it in the way he rocked you just slightly in his lap, grounding you. Felt how he loved you completely with no conditions.

Joel didn’t say shit he didn’t mean. He didn’t waste words. So when he whispered things like that—it hit hard.

You turned your head just enough to meet his eyes. He looked tired. Soft. His forehead rested against yours.

But even through all the love, you could feel it.

Pressed tight behind you, the warmth of his body steady, grounding—but his cock, straining hard against the thick denim of his jeans, throbbed like a barely-contained secret. And it wasn’t subtle, either. Not with the way you’d come apart for him, more than once, all over his tongue and fingers and the damn couch.

He was giving you a break.

Just like he always did.

Even if it cost him his own pleasure. Even if it meant sitting there while you trembled, thighs sticky and breath still catching in your throat.

Because Joel never asked for more than you could give. He knew your edges, every single one.

Where to push. Where to let you fall.

And right now, he was holding.

Letting you rest.

Even though his body was screaming to take.

That kind of restraint? It made your chest ache.

So you shifted—slow at first, experimental—grinding your hips back into him. Rubbing your bare skin against the rough denim of his jeans, where you knew he was aching, pulsing.

Joel groaned. Low and guttural, barely contained. His hand tightened on your hip like a warning.

“Baby,” he gritted out, voice hoarse, “I’m bein’ nice.”

You rocked again. Firmer this time. Your breath hitched when you felt him twitch beneath you. Big. Hard.

“Tryin’ to give you that break,” he went on, jaw clenched. “C’mon. Take it.”

Your smile was lazy. Satisfied. Almost smug.

“I had my break.”

He huffed. Short. Sharp. No patience left. “You sure?”

You turned your head a little. Just enough to whisper, “Yeah.”

Joel paused, studying your face to confirm you were sure.

“Alright.”

The next second, his hands were under you, lifting you like nothing, and you squealed, breathless as he turned your body with ease and planted you down again. Hips against the armrest this time, bare skin against leather, ass in the air, legs spread.

Vulnerable.

Exposed.

Ready.

You barely had time to breathe before he was behind you again—hovering close, hands sliding down the back of your thighs, thumbs digging in like he wanted to mark you there.

You felt the heat of him through his jeans. Still in control. Always in control.

He palmed your ass, slow and reverent at first. Then slapped it, sharp and deliberate.

You jumped. Moaned softly. Chest pressed to the armrest.

He did it again. Slower this time.

“So pretty,” he murmured, almost to himself. “Such a pretty ass for my pretty wife.”

You huffed, still breathless but unwilling to let him have the last word. “Pretty enough to make you lose your damn mind in a store.”

Joel made a sound. Something between a groan and a laugh. His palm skimmed over your ass again, this time lingering. Loving.

“Mm,” he drawled. “You think I forgot about that dress?”

“I think you stared long enough to memorize every inch of it.”

“Wasn’t the dress I was memorizin’,” he muttered, hand slipping lower. “You walked in front of me on purpose.”

You smiled against the armrest, eyes fluttering shut. “Sure did.”

Another slap. Harder this time.

“Goddamn tease.”

You moaned at that. Couldn’t help it.

Behind you, you heard the soft clink of metal. His belt—coming loose. Then the snap of his jeans as he unbuttoned himself one-handed, still keeping you pressed down with the other.

You craned your head, trying to look back at him. “You’re still dressed.”

“Yeah.” His voice was low. Dangerous. Warm. “And you’re not.”

The implication of that was everything. The unfairness of it. The intentionality.

You clenched around nothing, already needy again. You heard him sigh—a deep, throaty exhale like he was trying to keep his composure.

“You don’t even know what you do to me,” he murmured.

You smiled again, cheek resting against the couch cushion. “I think I do.”

Another pause.

Then the sound of his zipper lowering. Slow, easured and drawn out like a threat. Like a promise.

Your whole body tensed—not from fear, but from the kind of aching anticipation that made your skin burn.

“Joel—” you started, breath hitching.

“Shhh.” His mouth was close. Too close. The rough scratch of his beard brushed your cheek as he leaned in, voice pitched low and raspy—like it came from the center of his chest. “Lemme look at you…”

His palm braced against the small of your back, steady and firm, keeping you exactly where he wanted you.

His other hand?

Stroking.

You felt it—hot and thick behind you, heavy in his grip. The barest brush skimmed your ass, then slid down the curve with a slow, deliberate drag.

Then over the swell of your hip. Along the inside of your thigh. Everywhere but where you needed him.

Your breath caught. Fingers clenched the couch cushion like it was the only thing holding you to earth. Your knuckles ached. Your thighs twitched.

He let the weight of him trail over your bare skin. Lazily. Like he was painting you with it. Marking every inch of you with his cock before he even gave you the chance to take it.

You panting. Absolutely wrecked, your body overstimulated, used up, still trembling from two orgasms, but it didn’t matter. Not when Joel was like this. Not when his patience was more devastating than any touch.

“Joel—” you gasped, trying to tilt your hips back, desperate to catch the head of his cock, to line him up, to feel something. You missed.

He chuckled. Low. Pleased. Like you were performing exactly the way he liked. “Aw. Sweet thing,” he murmured. “You’re tryin’, huh?”

“Please,” you whimpered. “Please, just—just put it in—”

“Mm.” That small sound of false consideration. Barely interested. “You think beggin’s all it takes?”

You let your forehead drop to the cushion, gasping now, thighs spreading wider out of instinct. “It’s not fair,” you said, voice cracking with frustration. “You’re teasing—”

“That’s ’cause I can,” he said simply. Another drag of his cock, this time notched so close to where you needed him—almost there—and still he didn’t push forward. “And you like it.”

You shook your head. Tried to protest. Then he leaned down again, chest brushing your back, the rough cotton of his flannel rasping against your flushed, sweat-slicked back . His breath ghosted over your neck.

“You been good?” he asked, casual as anything. Like he was asking about the weather. Like you weren’t spread open and dripping for him.

You nodded, frantic. “Yes.”

He hummed, unconvinced. A kiss landed at the base of your nape. Warm. Unfairly tender.

“Don’t believe you.”

“Joel—”

“You wore that little yellow dress,” he murmured. His mouth dragged down your shoulder, slow and unhurried. “Knew exactly what it’d do to me.”

Your breath hitched. “You liked it, though…”

“I liked it too much.”

He shifted, and his cock slid down the inside of your thigh again, hot and impossibly slick from how ready you were. The head caught—just briefly—at the edge of your folds.

It was enough to make your spine jolt.

Joel grunted softly. Like the feel of you against him had snapped something loose in his control. “You wanna be filled up, baby?”

“Yes.” Your voice broke, wrecked and raw. “Yes—please—God, please—”

The hand at your back flattened. A warning. A reminder.

He just hovered. Let the head of his cock rest there, heavy and perfect, teasing your entrance, just existing. Threatening.

“You look real pretty like this,” he murmured, dragging a hand down the curve of your spine. “Bent over. Waitin’. Drippin’.”

You were panting now. Shaking. Your hips trembled with need.

“I’m ready,” you whispered.

He laughed—low. Dark. A little cruel, a little sweet. Like he couldn’t decide whether to fuck you or worship you.

“I know you are,” he said.

You felt it. The tip of him, thick and flushed, pressing just barely where you needed it most. The promise of relief, right there—

And then he paused.

“Say thank you,” he commanded.

You whimpered. Nearly sobbed. “Thank you.”

His voice dropped, a growl at your ear. “For what?”

Your legs shook.

“For—fuck—baby—”

“Say it.”

You shut your eyes, mouth trembling, chest heaving. “Thank you… for making me feel good.”

The words left you hoarse and broken. Quiet and sincere. Your voice barely made it past the pounding of your pulse.

But Joel heard it. He always did.

A beat of silence. A low grunt.

He pushed in.

All at once.

Your breath left you in a broken gasp, your spine arching hard as he filled you deep, impossibly deep, the stretch so intense your hands scrabbled against the couch for anything to anchor you.

“Jesus,” Joel hissed behind you, voice ragged, gravel thick in his throat as he started to rock back and forth. “Always so fuckin’ tight after you come.”

You whined. Couldn’t help it. Could barely hold yourself upright with the way your body shook, stretched full and pulsing around him. It felt like he’d taken everything—what was left of your breath, your bones, your reason—and replaced it with him.

He was so warm. So there. One braced at your waist, holding you in place like he was scared you’d float away.

You reached for it.

Blindly. Desperately. Your left hand stretching back, trembling midair, searching behind you for something that made this real. Something solid.

You didn’t even have to ask.

Joel’s hand found yours. Rough, warm fingers threaded between yours, locking down. Anchoring. His palm enveloped the back of your hand like a promise.

And that’s when he broke.

You felt it in the tremble of his exhale, the way his hips faltered for just a beat before crashing into you again, harder, deeper. A growl built low in his throat—raw and breathless, cracked at the edges.

“Goddamn,” he muttered, tightening his grip on your hand. “I’ll never get over this.”

You whimpered. “Joel—”

“Our rings,” he gritted out between his teeth, his thrusts jolting your whole body. “Your fingers on mine like that—fuck.”

He didn’t stop moving.

Didn’t slow down.

But the rhythm had changed. Something deliberate in it now. Like every thrust was a vow.

He shifted forward, chest brushing your back, his weight covering you now, thick denim scratching against your thighs. His breath was hot at your ear.

“That ring, baby,” he whispered, voice shaking now. “Means you’re mine when we’re like this. Means you chose me.”

You squeezed his hand.

“I’ll always choose you,” you whispered.

He pressed his lips to the back of your shoulder, soft and fleeting, like he couldn’t let himself be gentle for long without unraveling.

You cried out when he bottomed out again, your body clenching down instinctively. The sound tore from your throat was high, open, and honest.

He held your hand tighter. Like it was the only thing tethering him now.

You could feel his wedding band press into your skin as he gripped your hand. Could feel your own—twisting slightly on your finger as his thrusts jolted you forward and pulled you right back again.

You were trembling. Overstimulated. Barely here—but that grip in your hand kept you grounded.

“You love this,” he whispered, nose brushing behind your ear, breath hot. “Love when I take my time. Love when I make you earn it.”

You nodded—shaky, frantic. “I do. I do, Joel—”

He kept driving into you like he wasn’t done yet. Like he needed to finish what he started and brand the memory of this into your bones.

“I give you everythin’, baby,” he muttered, fingers flexing in yours. “All day long. Every day. You know that, right?”

You gasped, nodding. “Yes—yes—”

“So when I ask you to wait,” he said, still going, “when I tease… make you beg…”

He pulled your hand further, dragged it down the curve of your stomach, placed it flat over your own belly, his on top.

“This is what I’m thinkin’ about.”

You couldn’t speak. Could barely breathe.

“You. This sweet body. Mine.” He grunted the word, thrusts getting sloppier, chest heaving behind you. “You wearin’ my ring, cryin’ for my cock—”

“Joel,” you gasped, throat burning, hips jolting with every punishing thrust. “I can’t—”

“Yes, you can,” he snapped. “You will.”

And God help you, you did.

The orgasm hit like a truck.

Your whole body seized. You went rigid, then loose, your limbs jerking helplessly as pleasure tore through you—raw, electric, and far past the point of sanity. Your vision blurred. Your knees buckled.

Joel didn’t stop. Didn’t even slow down.

He just adjusted his grip, dragged you up against his chest, and kept going, growling low in your ear.

“You think I’m gonna let you go now?” he breathed, his arm banded tight around your waist. “After that? After the way you fuckin’ beg for it?”

He pushed in deep and held, breath shuddering. His hand slid down between your legs, fingers toying with the mess he’d made of you.

“Look at this,” he muttered. “Look how good you take it. How fuckin’ ruined you are.”

You whined—pathetic, needy. Your whole body was trembling, oversimulation taking over, heart jackhammering against your ribs. And Joel…

“Gonna fill you up,” he grunted, pace stuttering. “Gonna come so fuckin’ deep you feel me for days.”

Then you heard him groan. It hit all at once—warm and hot and so thick inside you, it made your stomach twist.

Joel kept pushing. Grinding. Emptying everything into you with his jaw clenched and breath stuttering.

You cried out—overwhelmed, stunned, mind white-hot and blank. It was all too much. Too much heat, breath, heartbeat, and sweat. The air around you thick and quiet, like the house itself had stilled to make space for what just happened.

Your cheek was pressed to the couch, your chest heaving. Your knees trembled where they’d gone weak. Your fingers were still laced with his, though neither of you had moved.

And he was still inside you.

Or maybe it just felt like he was. The weight of him, of what he’d just given you, settled so deep, so complete, it didn’t feel like something that would leave anytime soon.

Then you felt it. His breath on your spine.

A kiss.

Just between your shoulder blades. Warm and lingering.

Another, lower. Then one to the side of your neck, his lips pressing into the flushed skin like they had all the time in the world.

“You okay?” he murmured.

You nodded. Couldn’t speak yet. Could barely think. But God, you leaned up into him.

Shivering a little, your muscles twitching, nerves frayed, but still chasing every brush of his mouth. You could feel him softening in you, feel the shift in his breathing, calmer now.

His nose brushed the back of your neck. “I didn’t mean to go that hard,” he murmured, lips grazing your skin between words. “You always just—fuck. You bring it outta me.”

You closed your eyes. Your hand found his again, right where he’d dropped it at your hip. You tangled your fingers, holding him.

“You okay?” he asked again, a little lower this time.

“Mmhm.”

He chuckled, just under his breath. “That all you got in you?”

“Don’t make me talk, Miller.” You hummed, too wrecked to laugh. 

Another kiss. Your shoulder this time.

“I’m serious,” he said, quieter now. “You need water? Blanket?”

“Maybe… a new back,” you whispered.

He laughed for real then. Low and breathy. God, you loved that laugh.

“Smartass,” he murmured.

Joel pulled out slowly, quiet and attentive.

You winced. A soft inhale through your teeth. Your whole body trembled once, a shiver slipping down your spine like your nerves hadn’t figured out that you were done.

And then you felt it.

Warmth. A slow trickle between your thighs.

Joel stilled behind you. You didn’t have to look at him to know he was watching.

Closely. Intently. Probably with that smug, twitchy-lipped expression he wore when he was trying not to look smug.

“Don’t,” you warned, voice hoarse as you buried your face into the couch cushion. “Don’t say a word.”

Silence.

Then: a short huff. Half a chuckle. A shake of his head. “I didn’t say anythin’,” he muttered.

You lifted your head just enough to side-eye him. He was standing now. Somehow still put-together while you were bare and wrecked in the living room sunlight. His belt hung loosely open, jeans low on his hips, cock still out.

He looked down at you like you were the prettiest mess he’d ever seen.

You sighed, every limb jelly. “Joel.”

“I’ll get somethin’,” he said simply. Voice flat. Not unkind—just Joel.

And then he was gone, disappearing down the hall. You took a breath. Stood up slowly. Very slowly.

“Oh—shit,” you whispered, biting your lip as you shifted your weight to maneuver around the couch to sit. The movement sent a dull ache radiating through your thighs and lower back. Everything between your legs was sore. Sticky. Tender.

Your arms wrapped instinctively across your chest—not out of shame, but because your skin felt loud. Touched in every sense of the word.

You looked around your living room. The way the sun hit the hardwood. The TV was still playing, now with an ad that was sponsoring some new water bottle.

And there you were. Naked. Blown apart. Sitting on a couch you complained constantly about.

Great.

Joel returned with a warm towel in one hand and a bottle of cold water in the other, zipped up and looking a tad bit flushed. He handed you the towel first wordlessly, and you took it with a whispered, “Thanks.”

He didn’t move far. Just leaned a hip against the armrest and waited. You cleaned yourself slowly.

Carefully.

The towel was soft and warm from the dryer. You pressed it between your legs and flinched, hips jolting at the sting. Not pain, not exactly. Just the  rawness..

And God, the mess. You breathed through it. Wiped slowly, trying not to tense up, trying not to think about how full you still felt.

And Joel watched.

Not in a way that made you feel exposed. Like he was giving you the space to care for yourself, but couldn’t stop making sure you were okay.

When you were done, you dropped the towel back into his out stretched hand. He handed you the water next. You drank.

“Better?” he asked.

You nodded. “Yeah. Just sore.”

“Figured.” He stepped away and returned a second later with a folded t-shirt and another pair of cotton sleep shorts. He didn’t hand them to you, just set them gently beside you on the couch. “These’re clean. I’ll throw the rest in the wash.”

Joel dutifully went around the living room, picking up each of your discarded clothes. His fingers brushed over your panties on the opposite end of the couch, and you swore a smile crossed his face. He then disappeared back into the hallway.

The shirt he gave you was soft and worn—another one of his. Still smelled faintly of him and laundry detergent. You tugged it over your head slow, your limbs still limp, body aching in all the right ways. The cotton shorts were better. And, importantly, clean.

You sank down onto the couch with a quiet exhale, limbs folding in like you’d melted. The TV was still droning on in the background—some post-game commentary, pixelated stats dancing on the screen. 

You grabbed the remote with the tips of your fingers and clicked around until you landed on something quieter. Comforting. Just background hum. A house-hunting show, with soft music and couples debating backsplash options.

You should’ve stood up. You should’ve gone to the kitchen. Started the water. Chopped the garlic. That was the plan, wasn’t it?

But your body wasn’t listening. It was sunk deep into Joel’s shirt—your shirt now—and your limbs were humming, still, faint echoes of everything he’d done to you not even five minutes ago.

And then you heard the washer click on down the hall. Then the creak of the floorboards. The sigh of the hallway. Joel’s footsteps, low and even, approaching from around the corner.

He rounded the corner, changed into a plain black t-shirt and sweatpants, his hair still slightly damp from where he’d splashed his face. 

You glanced up, already reaching for the armrest to start pushing yourself up.

“Joel, I need to start on the pasta—”

“I’ll handle it.”

“You don’t even like making pasta.”

“I like you not passin’ out in the kitchen ‘cause you’re too stubborn to sit down.”

You huffed, flopping harder against the cushions. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Uh-huh,” he muttered, already heading for the kitchen. “And you’re gonna be walkin’ funny, so maybe hush.”

You covered your face with your hands and groaned.

God, he was impossible.

But you didn’t move. You stayed curled on the couch while he rummaged through into the bags, found the pasta box, clattered the pot onto the stove. You heard him muttering about the olive oil again. He never remembered where you kept it, even though it hadn’t moved in five years.

The water started to boil. You caught the smell of garlic—strong and sharp, mixing with the citrus of the countertop cleaner he must’ve wiped up with after.

He was humming now. Quiet. Just a line or two of something—sounded like it was from the radio. You couldn’t quite place it, but the low timbre of it settled in your ribs like a lullaby.

You peeked over the back of the couch.

Joel stood barefoot at the stove, spoon in one hand, your favorite chipped mug full of water in the other, waiting for the timer to go off. The sunlight caught on the edge of his watch. Alongside that, his wedding band glinted.

Your chest squeezed.

It hit you like it always did after days like this—when your body was sore, and your heart felt wrung out, and the house was quiet. That ache of love. That sense of this is real. This man. This home. This life. Five years of inside jokes and laundry folded wrong and everything in between.

You leaned your cheek against the back cushion and watched him for a moment longer, smiling softly to yourself.

You then tell yourself it was fine to just let Joel do it—to lay back, enjoy the pleasure of being cared for, every ounce of soreness earned and every bite of pasta lovingly stirred by the same hands that’d destroyed you.

But the moment he muttered something about not being able to find the damn colander—again—you were already on your feet.

You padded into the kitchen slow, your knees sore but steadied. The ache between your legs was sharp, but not enough to stop you. You leaned against the fridge for a beat, watching Joel try to juggle both the spoon and the strainer.

He clocked you instantly. Didn’t even turn, just said, “No.”

You blinked, faking innocence. “What?”

“I told you to sit down.”

You reached up and grabbed the block of cheese from the grocery bags. “Just grating cheese. I’m not building a deck.”

He turned slowly, eyes narrowing. “Gratin’ cheese turns into settin’ the table, then stirrin’ the sauce, then fillin’ glasses—”

“I’m just grating,” you repeated, fighting back a smile as you pulled the grater down from the cabinet and got to work.

He groaned under his breath. “You don’t listen to a damn thing I say.”

“No,” you chirped. “Not a one.”

He went back to stirring, jaw working like he was biting back whatever scolding he wanted to give you. You didn’t look at him—just grated slowly, deliberately, watching curls of cheese pile onto the plate.

There was a silence as you both worked. Only the sound of water bubbling and voices of a couple decided between city or suburban life echoed between you both. Then, quietly, you placed down the cheese and grater, and stepped around him

You didn’t say anything at first—just looped your arms around his neck from behind and pressed a kiss to the nape of it, right where his skin was still a little warm.

“Hey,” you whispered.

Joel sighed. “You’re ‘pose to be gratin’ cheese. Why are you kissin’ me?”

You smiled, let your lips trail to his shoulder, pressing soft kisses there through his shirt. Then another. And another.

One to his jaw. Another to the spot just behind his ear.

Finally, he turned—just enough to glance at you out of the corner of his eye. “What’s all that for?”

You leaned in, pressed your forehead to his shoulder.

“I love you,” you murmured. “And all your little grievances.”

He stilled.

“…Grievances,” he repeated, flat.

“Mhm.”

His brow twitched. “The hell does that mean?”

You grinned against his cheek. “Just sayin’ I love all the Joel-isms. The stuff you complain about every day.”

“Complain?”

“Yep.”

He turned now, fully, the spoon still in his hand, water boiling quietly behind him. “Like what.”

You counted on your fingers. “The thermostat. The towels being folded ‘wrong.’ Your mystery colander you keep misplacing. People who park too close to your truck. People who walk too slow at the store. Mushrooms—”

“I hate mushrooms.”

“Exactly,” you laughed. “And you complain about them like they’ve been made to spite you.”

“They are,” he grumbled, but his mouth twitched.

You kissed him again. This time slower. Right on the lips. Your fingers hooked behind his neck now, your body slotting up against his.

“And I love all of it,” you whispered.

He was quiet for a beat.

Then: “Even when I get pissy ‘cause you wear that dress to the grocery store?”

You grinned against his mouth. “Especially then.”

Joel huffed, but he was smiling now, really smiling, that quiet, softened version of it that only ever showed up at home, when no one else was around to see.

You rested your cheek against him again. Let him hold you.

The water boiled behind you. Garlic and tomatoes scented the air. Mushrooms in a pack laid unopened.

But neither of you moved.

Because some grievances could wait.

It’s official, Tumblr hates me 😭. A girl can’t write fan fic in peace without having to gut her work to fit the 1000 block limit.

Can you guys tell I'm obsessed with domestic Joel?? I love all the requests that ask me to do Joel when he's your husband/boyfriend. Hehe...

Anyway, I hope you guys enjoyed this! Just letting you guys know my requests are still open!!

[deathbxnny]

Arcane characters when someone flirts with you. | Viktor, Jayce, Vi, Caitlyn, Jinx, Sevika x Gn!Reader

I am the brain rot. The brain rot is me.✨️

Content: pre season 2 Viktor/Jayce!, Jealousy, pitfighter Vi, established romantic relationships, angst, threats of violence/death threats, sfw

Reader has no set pronouns.

((Not proofread))

》VIKTOR

He always struggled with self-esteem issues, mainly due to his sickness and disability that made it difficult for him to do much. A part of him forever will believe that you could easily do better than him, yet that doesn't stop him from getting terribly jealous anytime someone gets too friendly with you. Especially when they can see him standing next to you clearly being your partner as well.

But despite his insecurities, he doesn't allow anyone to harass you either on his watch. He lets you defend yourself for the most part until he has enough and lets his more sassy side handle the flirtatious person for you. He may not be able to do anything in a physical way, something he very much would rather avoid. But his tongue is sharp, and it takes little to make them quickly scurry away with a nervous apology for the disturbance.

He'll never admit to being jealous, however, and denies any teasing accusations you send his way. But he'll secretly ask for reassurance as he starts feeling embarrassed over his insecurities rather quickly after. A couple of hugs and kisses from your side will fix that right up, though.

》JAYCE

He has a reputation to keep up. And so, technically, he should always handle things professionally no matter what. People are watching him after all, and his public image can not be tarnished under any circumstance... or so he says. Things change in his mind when they are about you. In general, people know who you are and who you belong to since he rarely shuts up about it.

But every now and then, someone who is somehow unfamiliar with this concept will come up to you and attempt to woo you right in front of his very eyes. Now, Jayce tries to let you handle yourself, but doesn't hesitate to step in either if the person doesn't get the hint. His rather intimidating frame and position as a councilor help him out Immensely with this. He chases them away with a tight smile and a kiss to your head, as he casually asks how he can oh so graciously help them.

Once they leave, he'll pretend not to hear you, of you teasingly asking him if he was jealous. Him? Jealous? Hah! Impossible... okay, maybe a little. But don't tell anyone that.

》VI

As a pitfighter, Vi doesn't hesitate to get violent with anyone who comes close to the only good thing she has left in her life, which happens to be you. She's extremely protective and makes sure everyone gets the hint regarding who you belong to. But alas, there are always the couple strays that refuse to comprehend that fact and therefore attempt to "steal" you away from her. Something that never ends well for anyone.

Her temper is shorter than it used to be, and that becomes quite clear when she's quick to loom over the person that was pestering you. She knows that you can handle yourself just fine, too. But that doesn't stop her from grabbing their shoulder and asking them if she can help them out instead. Or maybe they want to talk it out in the pit? All the same to her, but the message is clear. She'll win if it comes to you every time, and that's enough to make the person scurry away in terror.

You'll definitely have to calm her down and reassure that you had everything handled. She's just looking out for you, though, and doesn't want you to get hurt, too, like everyone else in her life. The last thing she wants is to mess up again, so her overprotective tendencies will probably never lessen. Not that you kind anyways.

》CAITLYN

Your role as her partner is crystal clear to absolutely everyone in Piltover, especially after she takes over the troops as their new ruler. She's much more cutthroat and cold than she used to be before her mothers death, which made her extremely overprotective of you and your safety. She may even be suffocating at times with her security measures, but she finds it absolutely necessary. This also means, however, that those who try becoming a bit too friendly with you are always at risk of facing her wrath.

She doesn't hold back with her dismay and is quick to stand before you with a dark, stern glare directed at whoever was flirting with you beforehand. Caitlyn doesn't care if you can take care of yourself or not either. She'll take full advantage of her new position and power too, not hesitating to give the person that was pestering you a professionally worded threat that leaves them as pale as a ghost.

Admittedly, it's hard to tell if she's jealous or just worried in her own way. Before her mother's death, it may very well just be her being a bit jealous... but with her current position, she may also just be afraid to lose you too deep down. And she couldn't handle that.

》JINX

After Silco's death, Jinx's temper is milder than before due to her deteriorating mental health (if there was anything left of it to begin with). She's a lot calmer when handling situations and seeming more calculated than before, but that certainly doesn't quell the extreme abandonment issues in her at any rate. If anything, they've become much worse than before. This means that she'll cling to you and snap at anyone who nears you. No one is allowed to steal your attention away from her. No one can take you away from her. She just won't allow it when you're all she has left.

And so, she won't hesitate to use her gun on anyone who is pestering you. A death threat or two usually gets the point across anyway. Jinx will also let you handle yourself first, however though, knowing you can easily do that. But if things do get out of hand, she will step right to scare them away at best. She'd never kill anyone infront of you after all. She doesn't want to scare you away.

You'll have to reassure her of your loyalty a lot afterward, however, as her insecurities and issues can make her spiral fairly easily. Giving her a lot of attention and love makes everything go away, though, luckily.

》SEVIKA

She's very secure in your relationship and trusts you perfectly fine, which is why she rarely ever gets jealous. Why should she, anyway, when you'll always come back to her at the end of the day? Besides, people in the lanes know who you are and who you belong to, and most importantly, what will happen to their faces once she bashes them in if they ever harass you too much.

With that said, though, she typically lets you do your own thing and chase the person away yourself first before bothering to step in. If things get out of hand, then she'll suddenly be right behind you and tower over whoever it is that's not getting the hint. Blowing smoke right into their faces, she'll ask them if they have a problem, and if yes, then they should take it up with her outside. Although everyone knows she's the only one back afterwards. This usually does the trick.

Don't expect her to ever say that she is jealous, though, and hopes you know better, too. She knows you're loyal, as she certainly is for life and therefore doesn't worry about a thing regarding the strength of your relationship.

No one is better than her anyway.

[kenzdolls]

TOTAL INSECURITY .

⌗ pairing: {established relationship} katsuki bakugou x jealous! reader

⌗ trigger warnings: jealousy, insecurity, self-doubt, emotional distress, anxiety, miscommunication, crying, negative self-talk.

⌗ anon request: hello! I was wondering if you could make a story where y/n is getting jealous over katsuki getting close to another girl classmate? like basically him and another girl in class 1-a start training and hangout a bit and reader starts getting a bit jealous and insecure, basically a comfort fic. i’d really appreciate it cause i’m kind of in a mood today 🥹

⌗ a/n: thx for requesting this!! uh, i decided to use a random Japanese generator name thingy because i didn’t want to use any of the actual mha girls. and yes, I am doing requests. I JUST CAN’T FIND PHOTOS. [edit: if you get what the title name is from, ilysm.]

the first time you noticed her, she was standing at the front of class 1-a with that nervous smile transfer students always wore. emiko tanaka—her quirk was something called "energy sync" that let her match and amplify others' abilities temporarily. aizawa had explained it in his usual monotone, but you'd been more focused on the way katsuki's eyes had lingered on her demonstration.

"interesting," he'd muttered, and something cold had settled in your stomach.

you'd been dating katsuki for six months now. six months of his rare soft smiles, of him walking you to class with his hand in yours, of quiet moments where his guard dropped completely. you thought you'd gotten past the worst of your insecurities, but watching emiko successfully sync with his explosions during their first paired training session brought them all rushing back.

"she's really good," kirishima commented, watching as emiko's borrowed explosions created a perfect crater in the training ground. "her control is insane."

"yeah," you managed, throat tight. "really good."

katsuki was grinning—actually grinning—as he helped emiko up from where she'd been knocked back by the recoil. when was the last time he'd smiled like that during training? when was the last time he'd looked at you like that? you tried to remember, but all you could focus on was the way his hands lingered on her arms as he steadied her, the way she looked up at him with those bright eyes full of admiration.

over the next few weeks, it became routine. emiko would pair with katsuki for combat training, their quirks complementing each other perfectly. she could handle his explosive power better than anyone else in class, and he seemed to thrive on having a partner who could keep up. you watched from the sidelines during training, paired with whoever was left, trying not to notice how natural they looked together.

you told yourself it was just training. professional. but then you started noticing the little things.

the way katsuki would wait for her after class, both of them heading to the gym for extra practice while you walked back to the dorms alone. how he'd explain techniques to her with unusual patience, his voice lacking its typical harsh edge. the inside jokes that developed between them—references to their training sessions that made her laugh and him smirk with satisfaction. how she'd save him a seat at lunch sometimes, or bring him notes from classes he'd missed.

you found yourself studying them during meals, watching how comfortable they'd become with each other. emiko would steal food from his plate without him threatening to explode her face off—something that had taken you months to achieve. she'd tease him about his study habits, and he'd actually laugh instead of shouting. worse, she understood his ambitions in a way that felt similar to you, nodding along when he talked about being the number one hero, asking questions that showed she actually listened.

"you're being ridiculous," you whispered to yourself one evening, watching through the gym windows as they worked through a complex combination attack. emiko was practicing syncing with his explosions while moving, and every time she succeeded, katsuki's face would light up with genuine pride. but when she stumbled and katsuki caught her, steadying her with hands on her waist, both of them laughing breathlessly from the exertion, you couldn't stop the tears that blurred your vision.

you turned away before either of them could see you, but not before you heard emiko say, "thanks, katsuki. you're an amazing teacher." the warmth in her voice made your chest ache.

the breaking point came during a weekend study session. you'd been looking forward to spending time with katsuki, had even picked up his favorite snacks from the convenience store. but he'd gotten a text from emiko about needing help with a hero law assignment.

"rain check?" he'd asked, already reaching for his jacket. "she's struggling with the case studies, and you know how brutal those are."

you'd nodded, forced a smile, told him it was fine. but as you watched him leave, something inside you cracked. he used to help you with hero law. he used to be the one you could count on for study sessions and quiet conversations about your dreams. you remembered sitting in his room for hours, him patiently explaining legal precedents while you struggled to understand the complex cases.

now he was rushing off to help someone else, and you were left wondering if you were being replaced. the snacks sat unopened on your desk, mocking you.

the next few days passed in a blur of forced normalcy. you smiled when katsuki kissed you good morning, laughed at his jokes, pretended not to notice when he and emiko would disappear for their training sessions. but the doubt was eating at you, whispering cruel things in the quiet moments.

she's stronger than you. more compatible with his quirk. she doesn't flinch when he shouts, doesn't need the gentle handling you sometimes require. she's everything you're not.

you started avoiding the gym, finding excuses to skip group training sessions. when katsuki asked why, you'd claim you were tired or had homework. the lies tasted bitter on your tongue, but you couldn't bear to watch them together anymore, couldn't stand seeing how effortlessly she fit into the space you'd thought was yours.

mina noticed first, cornering you after class one day. "hey, what's going on? you've been weird lately."

"nothing," you'd deflected, but she saw right through you.

"it's about bakugou and the new girl, isn't it?" she'd said gently, and your face must have given you away because she sighed. "oh, honey."

"it's stupid," you'd whispered, but mina shook her head.

"feelings aren't stupid. but you should talk to him instead of torturing yourself like this."

but how could you? how could you tell the person you loved that you were terrified of losing him? that every interaction he had with emiko felt like a knife in your chest?

you were so lost in your thoughts that you didn't notice katsuki approaching until he dropped into the seat beside you at lunch.

"you're being weird," he said without preamble, red eyes studying your face. "what's wrong?"

"nothing," you replied automatically, stabbing at your rice with more force than necessary. across the cafeteria, you could see emiko sitting with some of the other girls, occasionally glancing over at your table.

"bullshit." his voice was low, meant only for you. "you've been avoiding me for three days. did i do something?"

the concern in his tone almost broke you. this was katsuki—your katsuki—who noticed when you were upset, who cared enough to ask. but then you saw emiko approaching from across the cafeteria, and the doubt came rushing back.

"i'm fine," you insisted, standing abruptly. "i just... i need some air."

you felt his eyes on you as you left, but you didn't turn back. you also didn't see the confused look he exchanged with emiko when she asked if you were okay.

that evening, you were sitting on your bed, staring at your homework without really seeing it, when someone knocked on your door. you knew that knock—sharp, impatient, but not aggressive. katsuki.

"we need to talk," he said when you opened the door, and his expression was serious enough that you stepped aside to let him in.

he sat on your desk chair, turning it to face you as you perched on the edge of your bed. for a moment, neither of you spoke. you could hear the sounds of your classmates in the hallway, muffled conversations and laughter that felt worlds away from the tension in your room.

"are you breaking up with me?"

the question hit you like a physical blow. "what? no! why would you—"

"because you've been acting like you can't stand to be around me," he interrupted, running a hand through his hair. "and i can't figure out what i did wrong."

the raw vulnerability in his voice made your chest ache. this was what your insecurity had done—made the person you loved most think he was losing you.

"you didn't do anything wrong," you said quietly. "i just... i've been stupid."

"about what?"

you took a shaky breath, fingers twisting in your lap. "about you and emiko."

katsuki's eyebrows shot up. "me and—what the hell are you talking about?"

"you've been spending so much time with her," you continued, the words tumbling out now that you'd started. "training together, studying together, and she's so good with your quirk, and you smile at her in ways you haven't smiled at me in weeks, and i just—" your voice cracked. "i started thinking maybe you realized you'd be better off with someone who could actually keep up with you."

the silence that followed was deafening. you couldn't bring yourself to look at him, couldn't bear to see confirmation of your fears in his expression.

then you felt the bed dip as he sat beside you, his hand covering yours.

"look at me," he said softly, and when you reluctantly met his eyes, they were intense but gentle. "you really think i'd rather be with her?"

"i don't know," you whispered. "maybe? she's stronger than me, her quirk works better with yours—"

"stop." his hands came up to cup your face, thumbs brushing away tears you hadn't realized were falling. "just stop."

he leaned forward, pressing his forehead against yours. "you wanna know why i've been training with her so much? because aizawa paired us up for the upcoming exercise, and i didn't want to look like an idiot in front of the whole class. you wanna know why i help her with homework? because she asked, and i'm not a complete asshole, despite what everyone thinks."

his thumbs traced across your cheekbones. "but you wanna know what i think about when i'm with her? i think about how she's not you. how her laugh doesn't make my chest feel warm, how she doesn't know that i like my coffee with too much sugar, how she's never seen me have a nightmare and stayed up all night to make sure i was okay."

"katsuki—"

"i'm not done." his voice was firmer now, more like the katsuki you knew. "she's a good training partner. hell, she's a good person. but she's not the person i want to come home to. she's not the person i think about when i'm falling asleep, or the person i want to tell when something good happens."

he pulled back slightly, forcing you to meet his eyes. "she's not you, and she never could be. you think i care about quirk compatibility? about who's stronger? i fell in love with you because you're you—because you see good in people, because you believe in me even when i don't believe in myself, because you make me want to be better than i am."

"but you seem so happy when you're with her," you protested weakly.

"i'm happy when i'm getting stronger. when i'm working toward being the best hero i can be. but you know what makes me happiest?" he leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead. "coming back to you afterward. telling you about my day, hearing about yours, just... being with you."

the last of your defenses crumbled. "i'm sorry," you breathed. "i'm so sorry, i just—"

"got scared," he finished, pulling you into his arms. "i get it. but next time you're feeling like this, talk to me, okay? don't just disappear on me. i can't fix a problem if i don't know it exists."

you nodded against his chest, breathing in the familiar scent of his cologne mixed with something uniquely him. "i love you," you murmured.

"love you too," he replied, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. "more than you know."

you stayed like that for a long moment, wrapped in each other's arms, before katsuki spoke again.

"for the record, though, your quirk works perfectly with mine too. remember last month when we took down that simulation villain together? that was all us, no borrowed power needed."

you pulled back to look at him, finding that familiar smirk on his face. "you're never going to let me live this down, are you?"

"nope," he said, popping the 'p'. "my partner got jealous over a training buddy. it's pretty cute, actually."

"shut up," you laughed, pushing at his shoulder, but he caught your hand and brought it to his lips.

"make me," he challenged, eyes twinkling with mischief.

so you did, leaning in to kiss him properly, pouring all your love and relief and apologies into the gesture. when you finally broke apart, breathless and smiling, you felt like yourself again.

"so," you said, settling back against his side, "tell me about this training exercise you're so worried about."

and as he launched into an explanation of the complex scenario aizawa had planned, complete with dramatic gestures and colorful commentary about your classmates' weaknesses, you realized something important: this was what you'd been missing. not the explosive training sessions or the patient tutoring, but this—the quiet intimacy of sharing daily life with someone who chose you, again and again.

emiko was a good training partner. but you were katsuki's everything, and he was yours.

that was more than enough.

⌗ taglist: @idexmids @siriuslyginnychase @eleteo125 @st4r-dustx @corpsebridenightamare @boreaswrites [OPEN]

⌗ mutuals: @haikyuubby @va-3 @tulippanes @luvseraphh @miss-indigen0us @cupkiki [OPEN]

✦ REQUESTS ARE OPEN! ✦

© KENZDOLLS 2025 . do not copy, translate, or plagiarize my work in anyway including the use of ai onto any other social media platforms or it will permit an instant block on all platforms.

[damselneedssaving]

BATBOYS BUT THEY WITNESS A STRANGER PULL F!READER INTO A HUG AND CLAIM TO BE HER BOYFRIEND. FT. MARK GRAYSON! P.T.3

★ TAGS: older!damian wayne, older!duke thomas, everyone is 18+, mention of death, romance, mark is utterly devoted to you, jealousy, lots and lots of jealousy, little bit of dark!batboys, kind of dark!mark too

★ A/N: some intimate mark time this chapter, yay!! also, cough cough, let's not talk about that tiny break i took 😭

★ 𝐏𝐑𝐄𝐕 ★ | ★ 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 ! ★ | ★ 𝐍𝐄𝐗𝐓 ★

YOU COME BACK TO DAMIAN'S SWORD AGAINST MARK'S THROAT—

—because of-fucking-course you do. You just can't catch a break for the life of you today.

"Damian—"

"This scum," spits the ex-assassin, cutting you off with the same sharp edge as the blade he wields, "had the nerve to claim we couldn't keep you safe."

Subtly, ever so subtly, Mark's jaw flexes. "I never said that."

"It doesn't need to be said to be implied." Damian narrows his gaze back at the meta, fingers readjusting themselves around the handle of his katana, twitching with an urge—to swing. To slice.

To kill.

You should've known. You should've known something like this would happen. That the brothers would be incapable of even so much as getting along with someone (a meta, no less) who claimed to be in any sort of relationship with you. Or, for fuck's sake, not holding some sort of weapon against his damn throat for something as little as a hug.

Maybe you expected a little too much. These are, after all, the same men who watched you through traffic cameras to ensure your safety when the Joker left hiding with a big bang. Literally.

You pinch your nose with a sigh, the start of a headache steadily clambering up your skull—

"Do you need some aspirin?"

—only to immediately cease its climb for a second.

Your eyes shoot open, quickly finding themselves on the unmasked viglante sat with a sword still to his throat, but his pupils trained onto you.

"How did you..?"

"You always get a headache after pinching your nose a few times," he answers, eyes crinkling a little in something soft and fond, "and I've always told you to stop pinching so hard 'cause of it."

You stare at him with parted lips and wide eyes, feeling that familiar heat crawl through you when he just continues to hold your gaze, smile a little too genuine to be directed at a stranger. 

Though, at this point, you're pretty sure that's not what you are to him.

The rattling of pills snaps you out of your little daze, and you blink to find Mark with his hand gestured out to you, a box resting neatly on his palm.

Aspirin.

"I always keep some on me," he says with a smile. But then his gaze falls down, and that smile is no more. "Even if... you're not around to take them anymore."

Something sharp punctures your chest, like a knife to the heart, and you almost clutch it from the pain, from his expression, but before you can even think to offer some words of comfort, the sword against Mark's throat presses down harder. 

"Damian," comes slipping out your mouth instead, stern and cross.

"He just tried to drug you in front of me," growls the swordsman, pressing down harder, the skin of Mark's throat hugging the sword's edge.

"It's just aspirin," you shoot back, narrowing your gaze at the demon heir. He narrows his right back.

"You don't know that."

Another pinch. Another ache. And the next thing you know, you're snatching the pill box right out of Mark's hand, Damian's eyes widening and stance faltering long enough for the meta to wrap his hand around the edge of the blade and squeeze.

Metal shards fall to your floor with a clang.

"You—!" Damian seethes, gripping the remainder of his shattered sword with teeth gritted hard enough to break boulders. "How fucking dare you."

Mark's face scrunches, a little bit in disbelief, a little in judgement. "You're the one that pointed a sword at me, man."

"What are you anyway?" comes a new voice, gruff and tough and seeping the same judgement that's in Mark's expression but a hundred times over. "Bullet proof, flight, super strength... you a Kent or somethin'?"

Damian clicks his tongue. "That idiot would tell me if his father were to adopt another of his kind."

Mark scrunches his face. "What's a Kent?" Then he shakes his head, steeling himself before answering, plain and simple, "I'm a Viltrumite."

You raise a brow, exchanging a glance with Duke and Dick, the two of them silent, but very much just as bewildered as you.

"A Viltrumite...?" you echo in a whisper.

"Why does that sound so familiar?" Duke finishes your thought.

"You're thinking of Kryptonite," comes yet another new voice—one that just entered the room; one that locks eyes with you, longing and pleading, before breaking away as if torn to, "as in: Kryptonian." 

Tim's gaze falls on Mark, and he continues with a question, "Did you mean you're a Kryptonian?"

Mark's brows knit. "Uh, no. What's a Kryptonian?"

"Our world's version of your kind, I'm guessing," you answer, lips pulled thin. Then a thought occurs, and you're quickly fumbling with the pills in your grip. "Uh—here. Thanks."

You place them back in his hands, fingers brushing against his own for a split second.

But a split second enough.

With a blink and tingles exploding in your fingertips, you're suddenly surrounded by blue. Blue and white and a vast expanse of nothing else. Not even the ground.

You blink, swaying gently, when a pair of hands settle on your hips.

"Careful," a voice whispers, the same voice that showed up at your door just hours ago, "you don't wanna fall."

Your head tilts, and a smile tugs at your lips, the next words tumbling out without you even having to think, "But you'd catch me if I did."

It's said with such certainty, such natural cadence, that you can't help but believe it yourself.

Then Mark smiles—soft and fond and filled with so much love—and your heart begins to bleed that belief.

"Yeah," he starts—quiet, intimate, "I would."

Your breath hitches, his nose moving to press against your own while the hands resting on your hips wind around your waist, pulling your back into the warmth of his chest as if he needs you to breathe.

And with the way he looks at you, you'd believe it.

Those crinkled eyes, that soft smile, the swirling brown that floods you with so much warmth, you'd need a fire to cool down.

He looks at you like you've strung up all the stars in the night sky just for him.

Then he tilts his head, and he leans in, and his lips press against yours.

...And you blink back to reality.

Your head whips around, lips parted and tongue so far from wet, it's practically a desert.

No one seems to be particularly concerned, all still glaring at Mark like he murdered stray kittens right in front of their eyes without so much as a blink.

"So let's just say that you are from another world," Tim starts like you didn't just see a whole ass vision right in front of your eyes, and you blink back your disbelief, "and in your world, Viltrumites are Kryptonians...

"Where the hell is this world's version of you?"

You blink again, looking around one more time and locking eyes with Duke, who raises a brow and flashes you a look that practically screams 'we'll talk about this later'.

So you put it to rest for now.

"How the hell would I know?" Mark questions, raising a brow in that same disbelief and judgement he gave Damian.

"You knew where [Name] was," Jason accuses.

"That's different."

"Oh yeah? How? 'Cause she's your little girlfriend?"

Mark's jaw ticks, but before he can even think to lunge, a chime interrupts him.

Multiple chimes.

The boys all raise a brow, each reaching for their phone and taking only a second to check it before their eyes are widening and their muscles go as taut as a tightrope.

"The Joker," Dick whispers.

"Of all times," Damian growls.

And the room bathes in a tense silence for one... two... three seconds before Duke breaks it.

"We have to go."

"No," replies Damian, firm and sound and more final than a runner passing the finish line of a race in first place.

But before anyone can say anything, can rebuke his claim or, dare you say, agree with it, you speak up, "And why the hell not?"

The demon head turns to you, gaze narrow and lips pulled down into a stern frown.

"We are not leaving you alone with him."

"You have a city to save." You cross your arms, jutting out a hip. "You don't have a choice."

He crosses his arms right back at you. "I don't think you understand, Beloved. I refuse to let him hurt you."

"And don't you think he would've already if he wanted to?" you retort, before letting your gaze soften a bit, "I have a feeling he's telling the truth."

In return, his own gaze hardens. "I'm not risking your safety on a feeling."

It's dumb, and you know he doesn't mean anything hurtful by it, but you still can't help the way your voice falters. "You don't trust me?"

Instantly, he uncrosses his arms, instead holding them out towards you as his expression all but softens into knitted brows and all soft edges. "Of course I do," he whispers. "You know I do, Habibti. It's him I don't trust."

Damian's gaze flickers over to Mark for a brief second, narrowed and pointed and filled with nothing but suspicion, before returning to you, all the aforementioned feelings like a ghost in his eyes.

You take a moment to steel yourself, breathing in with closed eyes and out with open ones as you say, "I'm not asking you to trust him. I'm asking you to trust me."

His jaw ticks, gaze far-off, and you move to press both hands against his chest to reel him back in.

"Go, Damian. I'll be fine. I promise."

He stares into your eyes, guarded, but still swirling, still loving, still listening.

And listen he does, for not a moment later, he relents with a sigh. "Fine, but I will come back as soon as I take down that scum of the Earth. And I expect you to alert me should anything go wrong."

With another dirty look sent to Mark by Damian, you smile. "I'll lead you guys out."

The loud slam of your door follows your words, and you flinch, looking around to find all the boys but Jason there and looking back at you.

Dick shakes his head. "Always such a temper."

Your lips pull down, but you force yourself to shake it off, walking over to your door to open it once more for the rest of your house guests.

"I'll see ya later, Trouble." Dick winks, heading out first.

Tim follows, not saying anything so he can, instead, hit you with that longing glance that can't seem to pull away until he's craning his neck awkwardly enough to have to face forward again.

Then Damian takes it upon himself to go next, giving you a swift goodbye as he continues to murmur what you can only assume are curses under his breath in Arabic.

And finally, there's Duke, who takes just one step out the door before swiftly turning around, grabbing your arm, and gently tugging you towards him.

"What was that earlier?"

You blink. "What was what?"

He narrows his gaze, lips pulling into a thin line. "The looking around aimlessly." Then his eyes turn sharp; sharp enough to cut a diamond. "Did he drug you?"

His fist clenches as he says that, the lights flickering enough to have you using your hand to grip his free arm lightly.

"No, no." You shake your head. "It's not that. I'll tell you later, I promise."

He shoots you a look, one of those ones that tell you he expects you to follow up on that offer, before nodding his head once, spearing Mark with one last narrow look, and turning back around to continue down the hall.

And just like that, all your invited house guests are gone, having never once watched even a second of the promised movie they had come over for in the first place.

You shake your head, clicking your door shut with a sigh before turning around, a smile—shaking and nervous—nestled onto your face.

"Well then. That was quite the show, huh?"

TAGLIST: @silas-222, @bloofairyfox, @wiseavenuelove, @inkycapps, @velovicy, @mmentallyelsewhere, @verysynical, @1abi, @bluepartywobblernickel, @krys0210, @patatasolitaria, @mazixxss, @nova916, @federalprison78-4, @crissy09yesso, @minhyrin, @nutella-hitler, @kvzutora, @starslightzz, @alishii, @crybabyghostie, @jsprien213, @cupid73, @doggyteam2028, @invinciblewaffles, @love-theangel, @butterbiscuit444, @thecrazyone2007, @reaperxdeath, @gaychaosgremlin, @pookiei-bookie, @couldeatthatgirlforlunch, @eugenekori, @khaos141, @saltedcoffeescotch, @thatoneraeder, @pix-stuff, @lingxio, @mxvoid26, @winterhi09, @pengmar, @natsukicookies, @bronermalls, @marinefreaakk, @starmee-lodurrson, @bbsaeko, @vellichor01, @frothymilkdrink, @brooklynbbxo, @sleepygirl-inc

[sourcherryandsprinkles]

Rafe getting engaged to Sofia but the ring was not for her

This one has been sleeping in my wips for over two months (I apologize). I have more Rafe wips, do you want them?

—

The news was on everybody’s lips at the country club: Rafe Cameron and Sofia were engaged. According to the whispers, he proposed yesterday afternoon.  

‘’He’s been with her for a couple of months and is already proposing,’’ Sabrina said after taking a sip of her mimosa. ‘’If her family had money, I would suspect a business deal, but her parents struggle with their bills. They have nothing to offer the Camerons.’’ 

You forced a smile. ‘’Love makes you do crazy things.’’ 

Before you, Sabrina raised an eyebrow. ‘’You think he is in love with Sofia?’’ 

You knew it would happen someday, but it hurt to see your ex boyfriend moving on and getting with someone else. Loving someone else. 

‘’Why else would they get married?’’ 

You filled your pain — and jealousy — with a piece of pancakes. 

‘’You were together for two years and he never got down on one knee,’’ the blonde pressed. 

Her words were a stab in the heart from an old rusted knife. But she wasn’t wrong.

Everyone on the island knew Rafe as a kook douchebag who’s bodycount was higher than a working salary’s digits. He was selfish, reckless, conceited, and didn’t do dating. He was a parent’s worst nightmare for their daughter. Not that anyone would dare saying that out loud. The Camerons were a respectable family. 

A lot of girls would say you pulled the lucky straw. Rafe chose to break his ‘no dating’ rule for you. 

But that’s not how the story went. You didn’t fall for his charm and pretty smile, you didn’t eat in the palm of his hand.  If he wanted you, he had to do more than flash his signature grin and show off his daddy’s dollar bills.

He rose to the challenge — and he was damn proud to call you his girl.

He took you out for lunch at the country club, made you his official passenger princess, and occasionally left on his boat for a whole afternoon, just the two of you. He introduced you to his family, to his colleagues and business partners at function events. 

You were it for him. 

No one had expected to see the day Rafe Cameron would fall in love. It was a surprise to many, but one of the reasons your relationship worked — other than love — was because you challenged him. You were the only one brave enough to stand your ground when he was wrong, to call him out. You handled his temper.  You stayed when things got ugly and he hit the ground with his coke addiction. He trusted you with his whole heart. 

Until he called it all off. 

‘’People change, Brin,’’ you said.

You remained silent for a moment, then Sabrina’s eyes lit up. ‘’Maybe he got her pregnant?’’

If you hadn’t known Rafe so well, you would have believed her and choked on your food, but getting a girl pregnant was something that terrified him. You had one pregnancy scare and you’ll always remember the look on his face when you told him. 

You shook your head. ‘’Unlikely. Rafe is careful about that.’’

Being careful didn’t mean he couldn’t make a mistake though.

—

The country club was the last place you wanted to be tonight, but you got dragged there anyway. 

You’ve been there for twenty minutes and you were already on your second glass of champagne, unable to watch Sofia and Rafe together. The way she would hold his arm as they were talking to the guests, smiling up at him like he hung the stars. She touched his chest when she laughed, her silky orange dress flowing with the coastal wind.  

Every fiber of your being screamed for you to leave, to walk away and spare yourself the agony of watching Rafe and his fiancée together, but you stayed rooted to the spot per your father’s request. Being a kook sucked sometimes.

‘’That’s a massive downgrade from you,’’ Topper said as he approached, his eyes on his best friend. 

You always tried to be humble, but this time you had to agree with Topper. Sofia was a girl from the Cut, and it showed. You could see it in the way she behaved around other kooks, but also the way she dressed. She was trying so hard to fit in, to be accepted by the higher class community, but no matter how hard she tried, she would never fit in.

‘’I don’t know what’s gotten into him lately. Last week, he told me was thinking of ending things with Sofia, and now… I don’t get it,’’ Topper continued, a frown between his eyebrows.

You took another sip of champagne just as Sabrina found you, a little late as always. ‘’Sorry I’m late. The pink dress I wanted to wear broke and I had to change. Hopefully I can get it fixed because that’s a really pretty dress.’’ She then turned to Topper, acknowledging him. ‘’Hey Top.’’

Topper’s eyes fell on Sabrina, and he began to vomit compliments at her. Unfortunately, she slammed the door in his face at his flirting tactics. You usually found them amusing, but tonight you didn’t have the heart to laugh. 

Without saying a word, you walked away and went inside the club. You promised yourself not to cry over Rafe anymore. You thought you had healed from your breakup. Why was it hurting so much?

The door down the hall echoed as it shut, and Rafe appeared as he rounded the corner of the corridor. His white button up was undone at the top, showing off the white gold chain around his neck. You remember helping him decide which one to get at a jeweler in Charleston. To thank you, he got you a bracelet that matched. Not because he wanted to mark his territory, make it known you were his, but because he loved to buy you little things with a secret meaning for just you and him to know.

Rafe halted when he saw you, pausing mid-step. His eyes raked over you, taking in each and every detail of your appearance — the way your hair was pinned away from your face, the dress that hugged your body without being tight, the luminous pink on your cheeks that matched your lips. 

His gaze lingered longer than it should have, catching him staring.

‘’Congratulations on the engagement,’’ you said, the bitterness in your voice sharp and deliberate.

Rafe groaned quietly, walking over to you. 

You let out a cold laugh. ‘’Don’t be too enthusiastic, Sofia might think you’re gonna ditch her down the aisle.’’ 

“Can we not talk about her?” he asked, low and tired.

‘’She’s going to be your wife, Rafe,’’ you reminded him. ‘’She’s gonna become Mrs. Cameron—’’ 

“I don’t want to talk about her,” he snapped, his voice echoing in the small room. “Not with you.” 

His tone softened and his eyes lowered to find yours. He reached out to touch your arm, his fingers following the path down to yours and taking your hand in his. He knew he should not be touching you when he was engaged to another woman, but he couldn’t stop himself.

The gesture was simple, but set your skin on fire, bringing back memories of better times. You  tried to retract your hand from his, but he didn’t let you. ‘’Rafe—’’ 

‘’The ring was not for Sofia.’’ 

The moment the words left his mouth, you held your breath.  Rafe continued, digging his grave deeper as a fiancé. ‘’She found it in my office drawer and assumed it was for her. It wasn’t. It…it was for you.’’

—

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[docrobinavitch]

flushed & flustered

dr. robby x f!resident!reader masterlist content: 18+ mdni, sexually explicit content, age gap, swearing, jealousy words: 4.3K synopsis: no one in the ER knows you've been seeing robby except dana, but when an EMT keeps relentlessly flirting with you, it has robby losing his mind. a/n: hellooo again. i think this one pretty much speaks for itself 🤪

Robby didn’t consider himself to be a jealous man. The older he got, the more secure he felt in the relationships he chose. And with you, he felt very sure about everything. At times, it bordered on cocky how sure he was about you.

So it was both shocking and incredibly irritating to him the way it got under his skin when you laughed a little too loudly at something the EMT said to you. The same EMT who had been flirting with you for three straight shifts.

No one in the ER knew you were dating except for Dana. The two of you had decided it would just be easier that way, especially as you were still his resident. When Dana saw the way he was eying the two of you… well, it was the greatest thing that had happened to her all shift.

“You gonna kick him out or are you just gonna keep staring at him like you’re deciding where to hide the body?” Dana leaned into his shoulder.

Robby looked at her with disdain and then took the lab results she was holding out to him. He furrowed his brow as he tried to focus on what was in front of him and not the lilt of your voice.

“Repeat head CT in three hours. We can discharge if it’s clear.” Robby handed the iPad back to Dana and put his glasses back in his pocket, returning his attention to you.

You smiled and then placed a hand on the man’s forearm before walking away. Robby couldn’t stand the way his blood pressure rose. Immediately, he followed after you.

“Have a second?” He asked, but didn’t wait for your response as he steered you by the arm into an empty patient room.

You laughed as he closed the door, “What the hell is this?”

A great question. Robby had no idea what he was doing, he had simply let his annoyance drive him, and the regret immediately washed over him. He scratched the back of his head, “I just um, wanted to see about the, uh, trauma one, if surgery came down to get him yet?”

You stared at him opened mouth for a moment, “Robby, you were there when we stabilized him and when Garcia said the OR would be ready in ten minutes.”

He was already nodding while you were speaking, the tips of his ears growing red with embarrassment, or frustration. Likely both, “Right, and so did Garcia come back down to get him?”

“I don’t know,” You said slowly, “Why don’t you ask Dana?”

You started to walk around him, but he blocked the exit, “Sorry, I just, we’re okay, right?”

You narrowed your eyes at him, “We don’t do this at work. That was your rule.”

He sighed, “I know, I know—“

Dana opened the door, “Sorry to interrupt, incoming pedestrian struck in a crosswalk, five minutes out.”

They both followed Dana back out into central, Robby’s mind still on that EMT. Your laugh and your soft touch on his arm.

When the trauma came in, he watched, gloved up as you and Langdon bickered back and forth about how to best handle the internal bleeding to stabilize enough for surgery. “Langdon’s running this one,” He reminded you mildly, “His decision.”

Langdon smirked at you snidely and you rolled your eyes. When they had mostly stabilized the patient, Langdon took the opportunity to jab at you, “So, Y/N, when are you going to put that EMT out of his misery?”

Robby’s eyes shot up to Langdon and his heart rate picked up again. So he wasn’t the only one who had noticed.

You frowned, “Who? Peter?”

“Ah, Peter,” Langdon said in a mocking tone, but you looked at him blankly, “Oh, come on, the guy’s been drooling over you for like a week now. Don’t act like you haven’t noticed.”

Robby watched as you blushed. You actually blushed.

“It’s not like that, he’s just friendly.”

Langdon laughed, “Right. Sure. I mean I have never seen an EMT so thrilled to be hugging the wall for close to hours, but yeah he’s probably just friendly.” You shook your head and sighed. “Or maybe he’s a serial killer, he does watch you with more intensity than just romantic interest.”

With the patient stabilized and surgery coming in, you and Langdon started degloving, Robby following quietly behind.

“Well, it doesn’t matter anyway, because it just so happens that I’m… seeing someone.”

Robby blinked, unsure he had heard you correctly. Your face was beet red as you looked anywhere besides Langdon and Robby.

Langdon scoffed, “Since when?”

You huffed with agitation, “I don’t see how that’s any of your business, Frank. But there is nothing going on with me and Peter, okay?” Now you looked from Robby to Langdon. You had picked up on Robby’s silence, perhaps connected the dots between his conversation with you earlier and Langdon’s interrogation.

“Oh, I am not involved in this conversation,” Robby said quickly, backing away with his hands up and quickly turning away.

He should be relieved that you denied it and that you even made it a point to affirm that you were in a relationship, he was sure that addition was intended for him and not Frank.

And yet… You had blushed when Frank implied that he was flirting with you. Again, he felt ridiculous that it bothered him, but he didn’t want you blushing thinking about anyone but him.

It was so difficult to fluster you that in the beginning, he had seen it as a challenge. What could he say, where could he touch, that would bring that pink to your cheeks.

They didn’t talk about their relationship at work, it was a rule he had established early on in order to keep their resident/attending role separate. He did his best to think about you as just a resident when you were here and just his girlfriend once you stepped outside.

But boy, he was struggling with it today. Every time he saw you he wanted to pull you into a private room and remind you of all the ways you were his.

And apparently, it wasn’t just Langdon who had noticed the flirty EMT. He saw several nurses exchanging looks the next time Peter came in with another patient and made his way over to you.

“So, what’s your vice?” Peter was leaning over your workstation while you were trying to chart.

“Excuse me?” You peered at him over the top of your computer.

“You know, coffee, tea, alcohol, cigarettes… Mine’s definitely coffee, I have like, four cups a day. What’s yours?”

“Uh, I don’t know,” You shrugged, “I guess coffee.”

“Painful to watch, isn’t it?” Mohan had sidled up next to Robby.

“What?”

Mohan nodded to you and Peter, “Y/N and the sexy EMT.” Robby looked at her, eyebrows raised. “Oh, I don’t call him that, that’s what the nurses call him,” She said quickly, “Yeah, I’m just gonna go.”

Robby shook his head and sighed. He was still talking to you. Thankfully, you weren’t laughing anymore, but he was awful close to you and there was that pink tinge to your cheeks. The same pink tinge that rose to your cheeks when he whispered something dirty in your ear, or squeezed your ass in public, or cooed what a good girl you are—

He couldn’t watch this anymore. Pushing off the hub, he marched over to you.

“Sorry to interrupt,” He said, and turned to Peter, “Do you have a patient here?”

“Uh, yeah,” He jerked a thumb towards the ambulance bay, “We’re waiting for him to be admitted.”

Robby nodded, “Well I would appreciate it if you got back to monitoring your patient instead of flirting with my resident.” He said coldly.

Peter narrowed his eyes at Robby, and then looked back at you. You were definitely blushing now, pretending to be incredibly interested in charting. Finally, Peter scoffed, “Yeah, sure.” He looked back at you, “I’ll bring you a coffee next time.”

You watched him as he left and then looked up at Robby, shaking your head.

“What?” He asked, it came out sharper than he intended.

You shrugged, “Something bothering you, Dr. Robinavitch? You seem tense.”

He smirked and ran a hand over his face before leaning in closer to you, “Do you enjoy it? His attention?” He asked lowly.

“He just wanted to know if I like coffee.” You said, but seeing Robby like this was making your stomach flip and your face heat.

“Really?” He was too close, much too close, you glanced around to see if anyone had noticed— “Look at me.”

You met his gaze which was hotter than the sun. He looked like he wanted to devour you, “We don’t do this at work,” You repeated firmly, desperately.

His gaze traveled lazily to your mouth and then back up, “You didn’t seem to have an issue when it was Peter.”

You scoffed and looked away. He was going to ruin you, here, at work. You could feel your arousal pooling between your thighs already.

Robby had never been jealous. It wasn’t uncommon if he had stepped away from you for a minute for a man to try and buy you a drink. And he would casually insert himself between you, not even look at the other man, just whisk you away. But he was always so casual and indifferent about it. You had never gotten the impression that he was threatened by it.

But now, he was acting positively possessive. And while it was absolutely inappropriate timing, you found it, unfortunately, unbearably attractive.

You stood from your work station, iPad in hand, and leaned in close to his ear, “If you don’t back off, it’s going to become very clear to everyone in the ED who it is that I’ve been seeing.”

As you move to walk by him, his hand grasps your arm and pulls you back in front of him. Your eyes travel from his hand on your arm in disbelief up to his eyes that are still looking at you with unabashed desire.

“Flirt like that in front of me again, and I will do more than just make everyone wonder if we’re sleeping together.” His hand was still gripping your arm and your breathing faltered at the feel of his breath on the shell of your ear, “Understood?”

You swallowed, hard, and then smirked, “Promise?”

He gave a short chuckle and released your arm, “Don’t play games.”

You leaned in close, close enough to kiss him if you wanted. For his part, he didn’t move away, his eyes snagging on your mouth again, “Don’t threaten me.” You whispered, and then you headed to your patient.

Peter was back. His patient was finally getting admitted and of course, you were the one guiding him to the room. Robby followed a few steps back.

“So… Coffee?” Peter said. Man, was this the best game this guy had? The best the “sexy EMT” could do was ask you about coffee? Maybe Robby had nothing to worry about. “How do you take it?”

You shook your head, smirking, “Cream and sugar.”

“And do you ever… go out for coffee after a shift?”

Robby sighed audibly and your eyes shot to his before quickly looking back to Peter, “No,” You said as you all walked into the room where the patient would be staying, “With all the coffee I drink during shift, I’d never sleep if I had more after.”

Peter nodded, “What about for a drink, then?”

You chuckled nervously, the patient between all of you looking interestedly from you to Peter. Robby watched, irritated when that tell tale flush started creeping its way up your neck again.

“Dr. Y/N.” Robby interjected, “The patient, if you would be so kind? Peter, thank you for your help, we’ve got it from here.”

Peter looked from Robby to you expectantly. As if he thought you’d interject here.

When you didn’t, the fucker had the nerve to ask again, this time abandoning the pretense of it being a casual conversation, “You get off at seven, right? I could meet you later.”

You looked up at Robby first who was watching you with calculated calm. Arms crossed, rocking gently from foot to foot. You doubted anyone else would sense the level of agitation, but it was easy for you to see just how pent up and frustrated he was.

Peter and the patient both followed your gaze to Robby, and then Peter looked back at you, question in his eyes.

“I’m sorry, Peter,” You said finally, tearing your gaze away from Robby, “But I already have a date after work… with my boyfriend.”

It took everything you had not to reflexively look up at Robby at the end of your sentence, but it wouldn’t have mattered. Peter was already looking from you to Robby, rapid calculations occurring as he put together the pieces of the past day.

Finally, he gave a short breathy laugh, “No fucking way.” The flush worked its way into your cheeks, your ears, your forehead. “He’s old enough to be your dad.” Peter hissed.

That was enough for Robby. Peter wouldn’t leave, and so he’d have to excuse himself before he called security. It wasn’t like this was the first time it had been pointed out to him how young you were. He had thought about it extensively, hating himself, from the moment he realized his affection for you went far beyond that of just a mentor.

“You’ll call if you need me?” He asked, waiting for you to meet his eyes.

You nodded and watched him go, “You should go, Peter.” You started your exam on the patient until eventually, Peter gave up and left.

“I would have picked the doctor with the sad eyes, too.” The patient said in the silence and you laughed so hard you snorted.

The rest of the shift, you worried that Robby was actually upset with you. He barely spoke to you the rest of the shift and avoided being in physical proximity to you if he could help it.

When the day finally ended, you quickly packed up your things and caught him at the hub as he was getting ready to leave. He noted your presence with his eyes, but said nothing as you followed him outside.

You trailed after him like a puppy, hoping he would say something, but he didn’t. When you got to his apartment, he finally turned to you as he closed the door behind you with a hand over your shoulder.

“You never answered my question earlier.” He said softly.

“What question?” You asked, breathless from his closeness.

“If you liked his attention?”

A self satisfied smirk worked its way across your face, “No,” You said finally, shaking your head slowly and biting your lip, “I liked that his attention led to more attention from you.”

“Even though he’s… Far more age appropriate for you?”

You brought your hands up to his face, tilting your head just a bit, “I’ve told you before, your age is inconsequential to me. If anything, I find it more attractive.” He rolled his eyes at this, “I’m serious. Guys my age are arrogant and have the emotional capacity of a brick. You are… leaps and bounds ahead of them in terms of empathy.”

He huffed a laugh, “I’m not sure how not being an asshole correlates with my age.”

“Experience and wisdom and all that, yada yada, but I’m not interested in this conversation right now. You’ve been looking at me all day like…”

He raised his eyebrows, “Like what?”

You cover your face with your hands, suddenly embarrassed. Another thing you loved about Robby was that he had absolutely no trouble verbalizing what he wanted in bed or how badly he wanted you. And he loved when you did the same, but you were still hesitant. Still a little worried he would find it too much, would find it gross, or shameful. Feelings you were still working through from past relationships.

Carefully, he pushed your hands out of your face, his cocky grin greeting you immediately, “Don’t do that,” He said, his voice low, “I’ve wanted to see you blush all pretty for me all day long.”

“So you’re not mad?”

“Mad?” He laughed, “The only thing I’m mad about is that you still have your clothes on. You’ve been driving me fucking insane all day.”

“Me? Driving you insane?”

“Yeah, smiling at him, touching him, blushing for him.”

“I was not—“

“You were.” He said softly, but firmly, “And I gotta tell ya, it made me want to pull you into the bathroom and have my way with you. Really make you blush like I know you do when I’ve made such a mess of you you can hardly speak.”

Your heart rate was picking up, and with it, you were sure, your breathing, “Well, what the fuck are you waiting for then?”

He grinned and then he was kissing you, hard and hungrily, like there was an ache inside of him he couldn’t satisfy until he tasted you. His hands were in your hair, on your waist, under your scrub top, everywhere, everywhere, everywhere. Open mouthed, he stole the breath from your lungs, breathed you in greedily as a hand palmed your breast.

You couldn’t help the moan that tumbled from your throat as he gently pinched your nipple between his fingers. In response, he pushed his leg between both of yours and you gasped at the friction it created there. Wanting more of it, you ground down on his leg and were rewarded with a guttural sound from Robby.

He grabbed your jaw and pushed you slightly to give himself access to the curve of your neck where he began sucking at the sensitive skin there.

“Peter was probably wondering what you taste like all day.” He grazed his teeth against your skin, “Or how you would feel grinding down on his leg like this. So pretty when you move your hips like that.”

“Stop talking about him,” You ground out.

Robby laughed and pulled away, the loss of friction from his leg made you whine involuntarily. Mercifully, he didn’t comment on this, just took your hand and pulled gently towards the bedroom.

“For what it’s worth, I’ve been thinking about the way you taste all day.” He pushed you down onto the bed and pulled at the drawstring of your scrub pants, “The way you grind against my mouth when you’re really needy.” He’s pulled your pants and panties off in one go and crawls over you. Settling between your thighs, he pulled a leg over his shoulder.

You’re quiet, nearly holding your breath in anticipation and he looked up at you. A check in, despite everything, despite how you had made it clear you wanted him and only him all day, he hesitated. Is this okay? His eyes asked.

It was sweet of him, but you were so frustrated. You wouldn’t admit it, but when he was acting so territorial earlier today, whenever you had allowed your mind to wander, it had been to this: Robby, head between your legs, beard glistening with your slick. If he had taken more than a cursory glance at your panties when he slipped them off moments ago, the evidence of it was all over them.

Your hips bucked involuntarily, “Please?” You managed, your voice a whine, a plea.

He smiled sweetly at you and looked back down. His finger glided across your folds and you both exhaled in unison, “This all for me, baby?”

You nodded and he lazily teased your dripping entrance with a finger, “Only for you.” You said, breathless.

You didn’t have to look to know that had him grinning. Then his mouth was on you, tongue slowly licking long stripes across you that have you quietly whimpering.

You reach a hand out to stroke the back of his head and he groans into you, the vibrations making your back arch. He pulls away slightly to look at you, his fingers circling your clit as he does so, “You’re close already, aren’t you, baby?”

Your only response is to lift your hips up into his hand, a silent plea for more.

It drove him crazy when you were like this. The fact that he had barely even touched you and you were already at the precipice. One practiced movement from him, a flick of his finger or his tongue, and you were so worked up you’d tumble over the edge.

Your face was flushed and sweaty, both from the shift and now, and you looked so fucking gorgeous.

He had been looking for too long. You were whining and arching your back at his lack of attention. He suppressed a laugh, “Okay, alright, I’ll take care of you, sweetheart. Just relax.”

Slowly, he pushed a finger inside you, sighing at the way you felt around him. He would never get over how soft and warm your walls felt around him, how perfect. He lowered his mouth back onto you, sucking your clit gently into his mouth and then circling it with his tongue as his finger curled up into you.

It took only a few more seconds before you cried out and he felt your walls contracting around his finger. His cock twitched at the sensation, full and dripping in his pants.

Even in the aftershocks of your orgasm, you were already reaching for him, pulling him by the shoulder back up to your mouth where you kissed him hungrily. The taste of you still on his tongue drove you wild and you started clawing at his clothes, trying to tear them off while chasing his mouth with your own.

Robby laughed at your eagerness, “You want to feel how crazy you drove me today? You want me to fill you up until you can’t see straight, hm?”

You helped lift his shirt over his head, hands pressed against his chest before you curled a finger beneath the chain of his necklace and lightly tugged him towards you, “Please stop talking.”

He laughed against your mouth and hooked your hip over his own, his erection sliding against your slick folds.

“Fucking Christ.” He groaned as he slid over you, repeatedly teasing your entrance with his tip before pulling out.

“Robby,” You groaned in frustration, until finally he gave in, sinking into you fully, “Oh, fuck.” You sighed into his mouth and he licked into yours as he slowly moved in and out of you.

“Jesus, you feel so good.” He lifted the leg that was previously wrapped around his hip and brought it to his shoulder, turning his head slightly to press a kiss to your ankle, “Okay?”

You nodded and he leaned down, pressing your leg with him. He was so so deep now and you moaned at the sensation. He began rocking his hips, slowly at first, then faster, harder, until you were delirious with the feel of him.

“Such a good girl,” He cooed, as he continued thrusting into you, “You look so pretty like this.” Reaching between you, his fingers found your swollen clit with little effort and he circled in time with his thrusts, smiling at you when you moaned and he felt your walls begin to tighten around him.

“That’s it, baby, cum for me again like a good girl. Wanna feel you cum around me.”

You loved when he talked like this, gentle and encouraging. It was all it took to push you over the edge the second time. And while you rode it out, crying out his name as you did, you felt him release inside you as well.

The both of you were breathless as you came down, his forehead rested against yours. You caught his mouth in a sweaty kiss and he hummed into your mouth appreciatively. When you both had caught your breath, he pulled out and wordlessly stood to go to the bathroom. This was routine now, so you waited patiently, knowing he’d return. You heard the sink water running for a while, then it stopped.

Robby came back into the room, warm, wet wash cloth in hand as he smiled down at you. He quietly cleaned you up and then once he’d gotten rid of the wash cloth, laid down next to you, pulling you into him with one arm.

“We should take a shower.” He said softly, kissing the freckles on your shoulder.

You hummed, “Just a couple more minutes like this, please?”

He sighed, “Can’t say no to you.”

You huffed a laugh, “You say no to me all the time at work.”

“Yes, it’s my job to say no to you there. It’s my job to say yes to you here.”

“Ah,” You said, “Very convenient.”

He laughed and then let silence fall between you for a few moments. Then— “So, do you think Peter got the hint or do you think he’ll come with a coffee the next time?”

You laughed, “I cannot believe you are still thinking about that man.”

“You didn’t answer the question.”

You sighed, “I think he got the hint, baby.”

“Good,” He said, “Because I have a strict no violence in the workplace policy.”

You shook your head, “You are a jealous, possessive man. I had no idea.”

“I can be positively territorial if it’ll lead to more sex like this.” He said and playfully bit your shoulder, causing you to squeal, “Come on, shower time.”