#Plastering Work In Construction

[shirtlessworking]

pleased with his plastering

[unroxyfication]

What happened to loxy

We never hear about loxy anymore

loxy passed away last year unfortunately Very sad oh well

[poojalate]

Best Cement for Plastering Your Home Construction

When it comes to building a home, the quality of materials used in construction can make a significant difference in the long-term durability and strength of your property. One of the most crucial components in construction work is cement, particularly when it comes to plastering your home.

Choosing the best cement for plastering plays a vital role in ensuring a smooth, durable, and long-lasting finish. In this blog, we’ll explore the different factors to consider when selecting the best cement for plastering and how to achieve the right plastering ratio for a flawless finish.

Understanding Cement and Its Role in Construction Work

Most construction projects use cement, and plastering stands as one of these applications. The ideal cement for plastering applications should deliver proper bonding strength and durability to surfaces that experience various environmental conditions. The precision needed for construction work combined with cement understanding during plastering operations, leads to optimal results on walls, ceilings, and other surfaces.

To achieve successful plastering work, you must begin by selecting the appropriate cement. Plastering applications require cement to maintain both softness and hardness because it must withstand typical surface wear. PPC cement (Pozzolana Portland Cement) serves as the preferred choice for plastering works in most applications.

This cement variant offers high strength alongside good workability and extended setting time, thus making it ideal for plastering applications. PPC cement is often regarded as the best cement for plastering, especially when long-lasting, high-quality plaster is required.

Importance of Cement Water in Plastering

The proper ratio between cement and water during plaster application remains a frequent problem that builders encounter. The cement hardens too fast when there is insufficient water, but excessive water leads to mixture dilution. The correct ratio of cement to water must be known by anyone who wants to perform plastering work at their best level. A proper bond between the plaster and the surface material becomes possible through correct water usage, which enhances workability.

The Perfect Concrete Mix Ratio for Plastering

The correct concrete mix ratio must be established to achieve proper plaster consistency. The basic plastering ratio adjusts according to both the surface type and the planned plaster layer thickness. The standard plaster mixture consists of 1:4 cement to sand, but specific jobs or surfaces may require different ratios. The 1:6 ratio works best for thin coats, yet the 1:3 ratio provides better bonding strength for thick coats.

The strength of plaster depends heavily on the concrete proportion used during plastering operations. Concrete strength and durability increase with higher cement content, yet higher sand content produces smooth surfaces but reduced strength. The correct plastering ratio must be understood because it determines both surface adhesion and the long-term durability of plaster.

Cement for Grout in Plastering Projects

Plastering applications require grouting as an essential process to maintain their position for many years. The cement selection for grout preparation needs to match the requirements for achieving a strong bond between the plaster and the surface. The cement ratio for grout needs to be slightly higher than general plastering ratios to achieve tight bonding in areas exposed to moisture or temperature changes.

Achieving a Durable Plaster Application

The application of plaster to the wall requires both patience and persistence. The choice of appropriate cement for plastering requires application through thin layers with uniform thickness. The hardening process becomes more efficient, while the formation of cracks is prevented through this method. Apply plaster to the wall in small amounts to prevent the formation of patches. Each successive layer of plaster should dry completely before adding another layer to the process.

The proper plaster application method creates beautiful walls and enhances the overall construction quality. The correct application of materials and techniques ensures plaster durability, which leads to structural strength enhancement that lasts for many years.

Final Thoughts

The selection of cement for plastering applications determines how long a house will last during construction. The concrete mix ratio, together with the cement water ratio and plastering ratio, must be determined to achieve both functional and aesthetic plastering work. The selection of appropriate grout cement helps increase surface durability, which results in stronger construction work.

The construction of homes and commercial buildings requires knowledge about PPC cement materials and proper mixing techniques for achieving successful results. The following guidelines will help you achieve a durable, smooth finish for your home during plastering operations.

Using appropriate cement for plastering, combined with correct proportions, creates a solid foundation for construction works that are both strong and beautiful.

[bobsearthmoving]

Transforming Construction Spaces: Why Builders Site Clean Services in Lalor Are Essential

In any construction or renovation project, the final result is what people usually focus on. The gleaming floors, the fresh paint, the modern fixtures — these are the things that catch the eye. But what many don’t see is the mess left behind once the builders pack up their tools. That’s where professional Builders Site Clean Lalor come in — making sure a construction site is not only safe and clean but ready for handover or occupancy.

The Importance of Post-Construction Cleaning

Construction and renovation work often leaves behind a trail of dust, debris, and unwanted materials. Timber scraps, nails, plaster dust, packaging, and even hazardous materials can clutter the space, making it unsafe and unappealing. This isn’t just an eyesore — it’s a potential hazard to workers, property owners, and even visitors.

Hiring professionals for Builders Site Clean Services in Lalor ensures that the area is thoroughly cleaned and cleared of all waste. It’s more than just sweeping the floors. These experts understand the process of detailed cleaning, which includes scrubbing surfaces, removing paint splashes, cleaning windows, and even polishing where necessary. They transform chaotic construction sites into livable, functional, and aesthetically pleasing environments.

Why Choose Professional Site Cleaning Services?

When it comes to site cleaning, many builders or developers may think about using their own team to finish the job. While this might seem cost-effective at first glance, it’s not the best approach in the long run. Specialized cleaning crews are trained to handle post-construction mess efficiently and safely. They also come equipped with the right tools and eco-friendly cleaning products to handle different types of surfaces and materials.

Builders Site Clean Services in Lalor offer a level of precision and attention to detail that goes beyond what a general clean-up crew can achieve. From high-reach windows to polished timber floors and delicate fittings, professionals know exactly how to clean without damaging the new finishes.

What’s Included in a Builders Clean?

A comprehensive post-construction clean isn’t just a quick once-over. It typically involves several stages. The initial rough clean happens during the early stages of construction to remove heavy debris and prepare for finishing work. Then comes the final detailed clean, which is what most people think of when they hear the term “builders clean.” This includes dusting all surfaces, vacuuming carpets, mopping floors, cleaning walls, scrubbing kitchens and bathrooms, washing windows inside and out, and ensuring the whole space is spotless.

In some cases, Builders Site Clean Services in Lalor may also include pressure washing driveways, removing paint overspray, and ensuring that outdoor areas are clean and safe too. The aim is simple: deliver a property that looks flawless and ready for use.

Local Expertise Matters

One of the main advantages of hiring a local service provider in Lalor is that they understand the unique needs of the area. Whether it’s dealing with local dust conditions, council waste disposal regulations, or even the timing for cleanup based on Lalor’s busy construction periods, local professionals bring insights that out-of-area contractors may lack.

Using Builders Site Clean Services in Lalor not only ensures a thorough job but also supports local businesses who are familiar with community expectations and can respond quickly when urgent cleaning is required. Plus, being local often means better communication, quicker turnaround times, and ongoing support when you need it.

The Final Touch Before Handover

For developers, builders, and even homeowners, presentation is everything. When it comes time to showcase a newly built or renovated space, the smallest smudge on a window or layer of dust on a benchtop can ruin the impact. Professional site cleaning ensures that every surface shines and every detail is ready to impress.

Especially in competitive real estate markets like Lalor, a clean and polished finish can significantly boost the value of the property and create a lasting impression for potential buyers or tenants. That final sparkle? It’s all thanks to a thorough builders clean.

A Growing Demand in Lalor

As Lalor continues to grow and more residential and commercial developments pop up, the demand for reliable Builders Site Clean Services in Lalor is on the rise. With new estates, home extensions, and commercial projects constantly underway, site cleaning services are becoming an essential part of the building process.

These services don’t just cater to large projects either. Even small renovation jobs can benefit from a post-construction clean. Whether it’s a new bathroom, a kitchen revamp, or an additional room extension, the mess left behind can be more than most homeowners are prepared to handle. That’s when calling in the pros makes all the difference.

Conclusion: Clean Spaces, Better Impressions

Cleanliness might be the last step in the building process, but it’s far from the least important. A clean site not only protects the investment but also ensures safety, boosts property value, and leaves a powerful first impression. If you’re building, renovating, or managing a construction project in Lalor, don’t overlook the final clean.

Choosing trusted Builders Site Clean Services in Lalor is the smartest move you can make to ensure your project is completed to the highest standard — not just structurally, but visually and hygienically as well. Because the final finish is what people remember most.

[jtclathingandplastering]

Your home, our masterpiece 🔨🏠

✨Ready to hire our professional services?

✨Contact us now✨

📲 +1 209-981-0975

🌐 www.jtclathingandplastering.com

[iamasaddie]

AN HONEST MISTAKE

Joel Miller x f!reader

summary: swiping left and right on tinder, you think you match with Joel Miller, a handsome single dad in his late 30s. Feeling enamored and horny you decide to meet in person, only to be met with an almost completely different person. warnings: darkfic, dub-con eliments due to alcohol intoxication, gaslighting, very big age gap [Joel is 61], switching POVs, explicit sexual content. Some tags are not added to avoid spoilers, dm me if you need the full list. reader description: afab she/her, has hair long enough to be pulled; has boobs and ass; reader mid to late 20s-early 30s. word count: 6,2k

a/n: thank you for all of the excitement and interest you'd shown to this idea, i have been working on it for some time and i'm finally happy to show you part one. huge thanks to @arcanefox207 , Ally helped me to polish this chapter and shown me a lot of support which i truly appreciate <3 READ ON AO3

MASTERLIST | part 2

Dating wasn’t fun. It always felt like an inescapable chore for you, and you tried to avoid it at all costs. Hiding your face in your morning cup of tea when attacked by your mom’s questions, her voice distorted by poor video connection. Joking only to avoid the topic of boyfriends and girlfriends when your friend kept nagging you about it. Losing yourself in an unsatisfactory myriad of hands that belonged to faceless people when the nights got too cold for empty sheets.

You looked at your table, a small hand-made sign read “do better” in your own handwriting. And that was exactly what you were going to do. You were going to kill not two, but three birds with one stone, and that stone was going to be going on a date. A real, proper date, with excruciatingly predictable questions and awkward first touches. And you were going to have fun. 

On the fourth hour of swiping Tinder, you were a breath away from ghosting everyone you knew and hiding in the Peruvian Amazonia for the rest of your life. The few conversations that you managed to have quickly died out when the person you talked to learned what you were there for. A month ago you’d find a pretty face and invite them over to smoke and have some fun, but that wasn’t a great start for an actual relationship. No, your fuckgirl days were over, so you went back to swiping. 

And that was when you saw him.

Joel M., 39 Southern gentleman with a beautiful daughter. Work in construction, so I can build you a house. I am looking for a real connection, please, respect that.

God, he was handsome. Your mouth started salivating as you swiped through his pictures. He was broad, tall and had a tool in his hand. Not the one you immediately started wondering about, but it looked like at least he didn’t lie in his description. Feeling like a complete creep, you screenshotted his profile. If you weren’t a match, at least you’d have someone pretty to think about before going to bed tonight.

Gently, as if afraid, you swiped right. Your screen lit up, and so did your face, you gave a wide grin to your phone. “It’s a match!”

He was too good to be true. A gentleman, he didn’t lie there. Joel gave you the exact amount of attention to make you run towards your phone whenever it rang. It was definitely nothing like you expected. He was attentive, remembering what you said and when, never shied away from your questions, and on top of that he was devastatingly hot.

You heard a blip of a new message and unlocked your phone, a smile already plastered on your face like a Pavlovian reaction.

[Joel M.]: I was thinking, we seem to have a nice connection here, don’t we? [You]: I think so, too. A little unbelievable, but I am feeling hopeful. [Joel M.]: Unbelievable how?[You]: Unbelievable that no one snatched you up earlier. From where I am sitting, you look like a full package. [Joel M.]: Well, you’re sitting awfully far away, so I see how it looks like that. Why don’t we meet in person and find out if you still think the same, darlin? [You]: Joel, are you inviting me on a date? [Joel M.]: Only if you’re accepting. How about a dinner at my place? I am a pretty decent cook.

Your hand hovered above the screen. It wasn’t smart, going to a man’s place for your first date. He could be a creep, he could be a murderer… But then again, you could never brag about your self preservation instincts, sometimes you just thought with a little kitty purring between your legs. 

You tapped on his profile again, looking at the zoomed in picture of his face. His brown eyes looked sad, but kind. A half-smile tugged on his soft-looking lips. Just a few sprinkles of salt and pepper in his hair. Even if he turned out to be a creep, you’d never had such a handsome lay before, and you were planning to check all of his tools as soon as you could, you thought to yourself before typing your reply.

[You]: I’d love that. Send me the address?

You weren’t worried, not really. You never struggled with too low of self-esteem. You knew your strong suits, and you wore them like armor. The upcoming date sent a pleasant shiver down your back, anticipation made you giggle into the void of your lonely apartment. The closer the day came, the giddier you became.

So on the fateful night you had enough confidence to pick out the dress that was a bit uncomfortable but looked gorgeous on your body. You smacked some lipstick that complemented the shade of your skin, grabbed a small purse and a bottle of wine and winked at your reflection in the mirror. You looked good, you felt even better.

August kept tricking you with its weather, the days still suffocated you with heat while the nights were unpleasantly chilly. You hugged your naked shoulders and rubbed your skin in an attempt to warm up as you waited for your Uber to arrive. 

You got inside the white Honda Civic, the smell of cigarettes unpleasantly soaked into the seats so you opened up the window praying that it wouldn’t stink up your dress. The driver acknowledged you with a small grunt and a nod, you did the same, not willing to start a conversation. The estimated forty minutes dragged out and became an hour in the man’s GPS, of course you got stuck in traffic it was just your luck. And on your way to a literal dream man, no less. 

Your kitten heel kept tapping on the car floor, the annoyed-looking driver gave you a stern look in the rear view mirror that you completely ignored. You needed to warn Joel that you were going to be late, and it made you want to grind your teeth. You hated being late, be that a party, a dentist appointment or a walk in the park with a friend. It made you feel guilty, leaving your palms sticky with cold sweat. You clearly weren’t going to make a good first impression, and with the way you chewed your lip bloody, you might not even get a kiss. You looked at the picture of him you shamelessly saved to your camera roll. Out of the two of you, you were definitely winning the creep competition, while he was just a dream come true. 

You zoomed in on his face, your thumb caressed the pixels of his skin. There were smile lines around his lips, and you wondered what made him laugh so hard throughout his life that the remnants of the gesture permanently cut themself into his skin. Joel’s eyes were gleaming with youthful mischief, something you’d thought a person loses after having a child, but he clearly proved you wrong. Sun made his brown look like amber, adding to the overall handsomeness of the man. You imagined yourself next to him – yes, it was way too early, but you couldn’t keep your mind from wandering – he’d be taller, bigger than you, his strong hand on your lower back as you walk through the city. The eyes of men and women hungry to have what’s yours, but he’d only look at you. Yes, he was a bit older, but still young enough to have you on his arm without dealing with accusatory stares and venomous whispers behind your back.

A loud honking from the car behind you made you jump in your seat. The line of cars finally started moving and it brought a sense of relief to you. You had 20 more minutes, maybe you were still going to make it.

The sound of your heels kissing the pavement echoed like gunfire through the neighborhood. When your taxi left you at the needed address, you looked around. It wasn’t too late, the small houses still looked alive with yellow lights and muffled voices. You took a deep breath, straightened your back and looked in front of yourself, examining the location. 

From the outside, Joel’s house looked nice. Nothing too fancy, the white paint a bit chapped, but the porch looked recently freshened up. A sturdy looking rocking chair covered with a blanket and a pillow gave the place a cozy feeling. His lawn was perfectly trimmed, and you imagined watching him mow it from that same porch with an iced tea in your hand. He’d be sweaty and shirtless, you’d drag him inside to fuck before he finished even a third of the territory. You clenched your thighs, a small pool of wetness gathering in your thongs. You better keep that thought away or you’d jump the poor man’s bones before he had the chance to say hello.

You checked your phone, 8:27 PM. Not too late, even acceptable in some countries, you tried to cheer yourself on. You hoped he wasn’t as insane about being late as you were or here went your first date in years. Gently, you tapped on the wooden door, the sound of someone approaching from the other side made you squeeze the bottle neck harder.

When the door flew open, you stretched out the hand holding the wine and fired out an apology in the most comical way you could, your eyes tightly shut.

“I’m so sorry I’m late, the traffic was horrendous. I promise I am usually never late, ever.” When no reply followed, you opened your eyes, a smile still tugging on your lips as you took in the man in front of you. It was both Joel and not. With your hand still outstretched, your mouth dropped with a hundred different questions, but you only managed to ask one. “Joel?”

“Hello, darlin’.”

“Is this some kind of a joke? Are you his dad or something?”

The man in front of you was not in his late thirties, hell, he wasn’t even in his late forties! The Joel that was staring at you looked pretty old, mid-fifties at least, you thought to yourself. His hair was mostly salt, no pepper in sight. It was inches longer than in the picture, soft-looking, it curled at the bottom. He was as tall and broad as you imagined, and it did give a little pang to your core that you quickly shut off. His face was ridden in wrinkles, prominent crows feet near his eyes that were still sad, still brown. You had half a thought to turn around and order yourself an Uber home, but the bewildered look on his face made you stop where you were.

“Darlin’, I know what’s going through your head right now, because I promise I didn’t expect you to be this young either! It must’ve been Sarah, my baby girl. She set up this thing, said she was tired of seeing her old man sad an’ miserable. Guess she didn’t think I was mighty attractive anymore.” He says with a self-deprecating chuckle. “She just straight up told me today that a nice woman would come over for a dinner, said she’d be here too, and if I loved her I had better prepared my nicest shirt an’ all. Christ, what was that girl thinking?” 

You caught yourself feeling bad for the man, your heart clenching. He was still definitely handsome. His stomach was slightly more prominent and his was shirt hugging him tightly in the middle. His hand that tucked a little white strand of hair behind his ear matched his face in little sun spots, skin that had been kissed by the burning star for longer than you’d been alive. But he still got it, in a silver fox kind of way. Poor man, put into such an embarrassing situation by his own daughter. Being willingly childfree had never looked more appealing to you. 

“You came all the way here just to be disappointed, I can’t tell you how-“

“I’m not disappointed,” you interrupted him quickly and stepped forward, an unknown force drove your hand to squeeze his forearm in a reassuring gesture. His eyes dropped when your manicured nails dug into his ironed flannel. “Just surprised, but that’s not a bad thing. We both unknowingly catfished each other.”

“Catfish? Ain’t that a type of fish?” 

“No,” you laughed lightheartedly, the man was adorable. The cold breeze picked up, and you were reminded that you were still on the porch, if any neighbors were out they were definitely getting a fresh batch of gossip to discuss before sleep. “It’s when you… You know what, no matter, it’s not important.”

Joel looked hesitant, his jaw ticked and you noticed him look you up and down before swallowing hard. Was he blushing? 

“I want to make it up to you before you go. I made us a nice dinner when I thought you were umm… age appropriate,” Joel tightened his lips and gave you an apologetic smile. “It ain’t catfish, just a steak, but I swear on my mama, it’s good.”

Before you could respond, your stomach growled making the decision for you. Your hand jumped to it, fisting the material of your dress as if trying to silence the embarrassing sound.

“Well, I don’t see any harm in that,” you smiled, accepting Joel’s invitation. The man looked harmless and you didn’t want to leave him sad and miserable, it seemed like he felt guilty enough. “It was quite a long drive.” Maybe it all could become a funny story you both would tell your friends. Separately. 

He stepped aside and you waltzed inside his house. It was big enough to still be cozy without making you feel trapped. The warm light made everything look safe and homey, hardwood floor creaked gently under your footsteps. The door lock clicked behind you and you turned around.

Joel was looking at you, a more confident smile now stretching his lips. The soft lighting took a few years off his face, and once again you noted that the man aged like a fine wine. That reminded you of the bottle you were still tightly gripping in your hand, and you stretched it out to Joel for the second time that night. He accepted with a muttered ‘thank you’.

“Feel at home, sweetheart, I’ll just grab something real quick.” Joel pointed towards his kitchen, the space was open, luring you in with a mouth-watering smell. 

You felt awkward walking around a stranger’s house, but followed his instructions. 

You didn’t see the way his eyes lingered on the exposed skin of the back of your thighs, his tongue flicking over his lower lip in anticipation. 

He disappeared further into the hallway, and you made your way towards the dining table. 

Alone, you took the opportunity to study the place you were allowed in. Unfortunately, it wasn’t very unique, or maybe you were just a shitty detective. Joel’s kitchen that spilled out into a dining room was disappointingly ordinary. Walls painted a soft yellow; polished doors of wooden cupboards and kitchen cabinets that looked old but taken care of; a four-person dining table that was now set with a few plates, simple utensils, napkins and wine glasses. You narrowed your eyes trying to see the pictures that were stuck to the fridge with small butterfly magnets. Your long ride and empty stomach must’ve taken a toll on your eyesight so you could barely make out Joel in those. There was a picture of him with another man, and… You leaned over the table as if trying to get closer, to see better.

“You know, you can just come closer to the fridge.” Joel’s chuckle made you jump in your seat.

“Sorry, I was just,” the right explanation failed you, and you surrendered. “I was just being nosy.”

“Didn’t catch you going through my drawers, so no harm. Can’t really snoop if it’s out there to see, right?” Joel set the opened bottle of the wine you’d brought on the table and waved a bottle opener in his right hand. “Haven’t had wine in some time so had to go look for this guy,” he explained. 

“Whatever you made, it smells delicious,” you smiled at him. The sucking feeling in your stomach became uncomfortable, and you cursed at yourself internally for skipping lunch.

“Well then, let’s get some of it in you, shall we?”

Joel seemed way more relaxed, maybe your agreement to spend time with him made him feel less guilty for his daughter’s actions; or maybe it was the confidence of being a host. Either way, it looked good on him. 

You didn’t stop your eye from wandering over his frame while he looked away, putting food on your plates. His dark green shirt was snug around his broad shoulders, the soft-looking material translated the feeling of warmth and comfort you lacked in your dress. He had blue jeans on, and you felt your cheeks heat up when you noticed a firm ass hidden behind the rough fabric. Your hand left the table, and you tugged at your bottom lip absent-mindlessly. What was twenty more years? He turned around and since your eyes hadn't moved, you were now shamelessly staring at his crotch. The jeans did not hide much.

You snapped your face up immediately at Joel’s quiet cough. There was a barely hidden smirk on his face, so you decided that no harm was done. So what if you gave the man a quiet compliment? You’d been doing that for the last two weeks, even though apparently his daughter was the one responding to them. You could spare some flirting for the poor guy, he looked like he enjoyed a bit of your harmless attention.

He didn’t lie, he was a decent cook. The meat melted on your tongue and the wine you brought complimented it nicely. You didn’t notice the way your glass was always full, Joel’s stories from the past kept you too entranced.

Heat was creeping up your chest, settling in your cheeks and you moved the wine glass away. You could tolerate a full bottle without being visibly affected, not your proudest trick but it was what it was. Yet, now you felt like you’d emptied at least a couple of bottles on an empty stomach, even though the bottle on the table proved otherwise. You felt dizzy, but not in a bad way, just more relaxed than you were planning to be. Joel looked more handsome every minute, his syrupy thick voice lulled you into a trance-like headspace.

“Can’t lie, you look mighty pretty, darlin’. Had I been thirty years younger it’d be hard to keep my hands to myself.” 

Wine dimmed your instincts, so you just giggled. Joel’s eyes darkened as he tripped his gaze from your face to your bust, your breasts straining against the silk fabric of your dress. You noticed him looking and cleared your throat, tits jiggling slightly. 

“Forgive an old man, sweetheart?” There was nothing sorry about his tone, but it slipped your mind completely, your guard almost all the way down. “As I said, haven't had a pretty thing like you here in ages.”

You tried to study his face, your brain foggy as you struggled to figure him out. “You compliment like a man deep in the dating pool,” you smirked, “makes it hard to believe it’s all an accident. Maybe you actually lured me in here

intentionally?” You raised your eyebrows, but couldn’t handle your own silly accusation, breaking down in giggles.

“Don’t worry, darlin’, this old dog is all bark no bite.” His smile looked sincere, kind laughter leaving his wet lips and he gave you a wink.

“You’re not that old,” your voice dragged the words out like you wanted to convince yourself more than him. You felt hot all over and you weren’t sure if it was the result of the wine you drank.

“You’re too kind, sweetheart, no need to spare my feelings. My prime is long behind the horizon.”

“No, you’re actually very handsome,” you didn’t lie, anyone with a good working set of eyes would see his attractiveness, and you had two weeks to cement it in your brain. “You have a very nice smile, and your hands,” your eyes dropped on the table where a giant fist was curled around his fork. “A lot of women appreciate a good set of hands.”

“Learned to work with them pretty well, too.” Joel nodded and smirked. “Leaking faucets, clogged drainage. Can fix it all.”

In your mind that phrase sounded naughtier than you were sure the man intended it to, and you reprimanded yourself, feeling a different kind of heat rise from your belly. With one swift movement you’ve emptied what was left in your glass of wine, forgetting about your need to somehow get home after dinner. Joel only poured some more in your glass, smiling softly.

He learned the dance moves long ago. Pretty birds like you were comfortably predictable, and even though you oozed a different kind of odor, he knew exactly what to say. He watched you sip your wine with ease, his own glass barely touched on the table.

When the last piece of salad was cleaned off your plate, you felt a pleasant fullness in your belly. Your head was heavy in a sleepy kind of way, and you looked around, trying to find something to hold your attention on. Your eyes skimmed the living room, from where you were sitting you could see an old couch, in some spots it was now more beige than brown, its big cushions looked soft and the blue quilt draped over the back of it was calling your name.

There was a guitar leaning against one of the armrests and you moved your eyes back at Joel who was silently studying you.

“You play that?” You blindly pointed your thumb towards the strategically placed instrument and Joel curtly nodded.

“I pluck the strings, sometimes something bearable comes out.” He joked, the apples of his cheeks saturated with color and you reached your hand to take his

and gently squeezed it. Joel’s skin turned out to be warm and dry, the sensation of giving him such an innocent touch tingled on your fingertips.

“I noticed you tend to undersell yourself. Would you play something for me?” You didn’t want to leave yet, and your empty plate didn’t really leave you a reason to stay. You tilted your head to the right and gave Joel a sweet smile, hoping he’d succumb to your charm. He didn’t wait long before returning the soft gesture. Slowly, he got off his seat. His figure loomed above you for a quiet moment before he outstretched his palm.

“I’d never be able to refuse you,” he admitted. Your hand drowned in his and he tugged you up. You almost crushed into his broad chest, but to your own dismay he took a step back. Your insides throbbed, the smell of his cologne mixed with his own odor awoke every single receptor on your skin.

“Do you like old stuff?” 

“I’m still here,” you quipped and shrugged your shoulders innocently. Joel stopped, making sure you saw him roll his eyes in fake annoyance. He couldn’t contain the breathy laugh, though, so you knew he got your joke. 

You moved towards the couch, while Joel walked a step behind you, enjoying the view of your ass in a skin tight dress. The outline of your thongs was visible to him, and he smiled to himself, maybe you weren’t as innocent as you pretended to be. Joel bit the inside of his cheek to refrain from any comments.

His hand hugged the neck of the guitar confidently, while you made yourself comfortable on the couch.

“I think I know just the thing.”

Your eyes never left his fingers as he started to hum an unfamiliar melody.

His voice lulled you in, deep vibrations as he plucked the strings reverberated in your chest. You felt so warm inside, the heat that was pooling in the depth of your belly rose and touched your chest, neck, the tips of your fingers. The dress clung to your skin unpleasantly and for a moment you wished you could take it off. Was it so wrong?

Your eyes traced Joel’s face, the sharp angle of his nose, the tip of it twitching as he sang gently. His lips caressed the words with a tenderness of a lover and you wondered when was the last time they did the same to a woman. Your thighs tightened as your body already knew something your mind only danced around. You shifted in your seat, moving closer to Joel, letting your knees touch.His eyes found yours, a question burning in his browns. You shrugged your shoulders and gave him a small smile, he smiled back. The melody continued, his warm timbre embracing the words.

Maybe tomorrow, honey, Some place down the line, I’ll wake up older So much older, mama, I’ll wake up older, and I’ll just stop all my trying

Your fingers drew patterns on your dress, nails picking at the seam with nervousness. The fire in the center of you gave you confidence to follow through, and your hand ended up on Joel’s knee, slowly moving up until your pinky touched the wood of his guitar. The melody didn’t falter, but his voice did.

“Whatcha doin’, sweetheart?”

“It is a date, isn’t it?” The shreds of your confidence only allowed you to squeeze his thigh with a hint, yet your eyes looked anywhere but his face.

“You shouldn’t do something like that to an old man like me, will break my heart when you leave,” he sounded so painfully sad, it made your heart ache as bad as your pussy. You looked him in the eye then, god, he was so handsome. 

“What if I don’t leave?” You challenged him like a mouse challenging a lion. Joel shook his head, his hand gripping the guitar’s neck viciously.

“Stop playing with me, darlin’.”

“What if I’m not playing?”

You expected another sad plea, another crack in his voice. But instead, he put his guitar to the side and spread his legs wider than before. “Then prove it.” He husked out. “Prove that you know what you’re doing.”

There was no mistake in what he meant. His voice added a new depth into it, eyes glowed with something dark. Passion, you thought. Need. The one that was pushing you to your knees at that same moment. The one that numbed your skin when your bones hit the hardwood floor between his spread thighs. The one that guided your hands to his zipper before you could even steal a kiss off his tantalizing lips.

He was hot underneath his clothes, his skin was burning like he had a fever and you were almost too impatient to be gentle. Joel lifted his hips just enough to help you tug his jeans down, his grey cotton boxers followed. He watched you intently, and you watched his half-hard cock lay heavily on his full balls. They were hanging low, their size intimidating. But no more intimidating than the main course.

You weren’t offended that he wasn’t fully hard yet, still, Joel took you by the chin and made you look at him. “Sorry, darlin’, you’re the prettiest girl I’ve seen in a long time, but at my age, it’s just not enough anymore.”

You nodded, your mouth flooding with saliva at the thought of him growing under your tongue. He was thick, veiny, more veiny than the dicks you’d seen

before so you thought it was an age thing, however the vines surrounding his shaft only made you whimper harder, thighs squelching with your arousal. 

You leaned forward, inhaling full lungs of him. It was heady, strong, and made you dizzier than all the wine you drank. You reached your hand out with the intent of touching his cock, but Joel stopped you.

“Touch yourself.” For the first time you heard something dark in his melody. Commanding.

“What?” You were confused. Did he want you to just play with yourself? Because you were on the verge of bursting if he didn’t let you get closer to his cock.

“Put your little hand in your panties and slick it up with all the sweet juices that have been leaking out of you since the moment you saw me, darlin’.” Your mouth fell open, hand following his order under Joel’s dominant gaze. “Then you can wrap it around my dick, and prove to me that you really want this.”

It was so easy to just do what he said, without questioning the moral, the consequences. Your hand was wet with your arousal, pussy begging to keep it

there, to give some attention to your clit, but your mind was set on the man before you. 

He hissed when you wrapped your slick hand around his shaft and started jerking it slowly, feeling the girth of him thrum with growing desire. You looked at his cock, entranced. His shaft was shining with your own juices, a pink head became deeper in color as more blood rushed to his cock. You swiped your thumb over it, a tiny drop of precum glistening in his slit. 

“You’re doin’ such a good job, angel.” Joel’s hoarse voice was almost a whisper. You felt the steam coming from him, it made you sweat, your breath hitching. “Why don’t you put that mouth to use, hm, darlin’? You speak awful lot with it.”

It almost made you giggle, a plan forming in your head. Instead of letting his cock in the scorching wetness of your mouth, your head dropped lower. You

stuck your tongue out, lathering his heavy balls in your saliva. They were fuzzy, like a ripe peach, and you massaged them with the wet muscle. 

“Fuck, ain’t nothing angelic about you, huh?” Joel’s voice was barely recognizable, hungry and low it vibrated in your pussy. You opened your mouth wider, sucking his balls in turn. “That’s right, making me feel so good, sucking on my balls like that. Come on, baby, use your tongue.” 

You tried to alternate between licking and sucking on his ballsack, your spit drooling over your chin while you were panting like a rabid dog. The only thing that mocked your ladylikeness was your goddamn dress, and it was almost drenched in your own slick at this point. 

“Good girl, sucking on my balls like it’s what you came here for. Came here to make an old man cum? What a perverted little girl you are, sweetheart.” Your pussy tingled with your praise. The mouth on him made your head spin, like a newfound drug that affected only you he seeped under your skin making you pant and moan as you continued pleasuring him. Your hand jerked his thick cock in tandem with your mouth on his balls. Joel’s eyes never left you, as he continued praising you. “Mmhm, that’s good, drench ‘em, fuck you’re a dirty one.” 

You felt his hand at the back of your head as it pressed you harder into him, your nose was forced into his perineum and he almost humped your face with his groin. Your tongue hung out, and he managed to slide his balls across it before it almost went too low. The tip of your tongue almost touching his puckered hole covered in more hair. 

“Not today,” you heard him grumble before tugging you up. “Come on, darlin’, don’t make me waste a load.” He pushed on your cheeks with his hand, feeding you his cock in one movement. It was a lot to take, your teeth barely scraping his shaft, and you used your tongue to protect the underside. “Take it all, come on, darlin’, you’re the one who wanted it.”

Intoxication and arousal didn’t mix well, as you just moaned pathetically around him, letting him deeper in your throat. It bulged with the sheer size of his dick, you felt it, uncomfortable, but you couldn’t move, your body too heavy and tired. Instead, your hands found his wet balls, already tight and ready to blow every drop of cum he’d been saving for you. You tried to fit them in your hand, gently tugging at his sack to stimulate him further.

“Ready, sweetheart? I better not see you waste a drop.” His hips bucked, and your nose was pressed into the soft tuft of his grey pubes. Joel pressed your head into him harder as his hot load trickled down your throat. You tried to breathe through your nose, the lack of oxygen blackening your vision.

He pulled out seconds before you were ready to pass out.

“Gotta tap my leg or somethin’, sugar. I don’t need you dying with my cock still in your throat.” You chuckled, not sure why. Joel placed his hand on your cheek, his thumb tracing your lower lip, slippery with your saliva. His whisper sounded gentle, “God, you’re a mess. Beautiful.”

You didn’t trust your throat to work, so instead, you tried to get up on your trembling legs. Your pussy still screamed for release, so wet you could feel your arousal escaping your thongs and dripping down your leg. You hiked the skirt of your dress up, not an ounce of shame inside, and straddled Joel.

“Whoa, darlin’, slow down,” his hands dropped to your hips, keeping you in place. Your brows furrowed. He didn’t look like a man who’d let a lady down. “Why don’t we change our location?”

You didn’t get an opportunity to look around, your feet scrambling as he tugged you into a dark room. His pants were up, but undone, and you lost your heels somewhere along the way, your dress still hiked up like a common whore.

Everything was spinning, so when he dropped on the bed at first you thought he fell. His voice was navigating you through the darkness, but you could barely concentrate on it.

“Come here, angel, let this old man take care of your pretty pussy.” Joel smacked his lips, and guided you to climb on top of him, legs on each side of his body until your pussy hovered over his face.

“Panties,” you whimpered and heard an immediate crack of fabric ripping.

“Sorry, darlin’, can’t make you wait any longer,” his face pressed into the side of your thigh, sticky with your own juices, and you whimpered pathetically at the texture of his scruff scratching your sensitive skin. “Smell so good, fresh, like a new doll.”

You couldn’t understand what he meant, you didn’t even try to. When his lips latched onto your clit, your head tilted back and you let out a loud moan. Joel only moaned back, the sound penetrating your pussy alongside his tongue.

His hands gripped your asscheeks painfully, forcing you to grind on his face. His tongue slipped in your wet hole, and you felt yourself shaking on top of him, your legs giving out as he kept fucking you with his tongue. 

Joel growled in your skin, making you crawl to your orgasm faster and faster with every swipe of his tongue. 

The tip of his nose kept hitting your sensitive clit, as he pushed his tongue further and further in your fluttering hole. He kissed his way up, pinching your clit between his tightly clasped lips and sucked, punching a cry out of you with his raw vigor.

“Come on, sugar,” he commanded, “I feel her cryin’, give her what she wants.”

With doubled passion he flickered his tongue over your throbbing bud, and you felt sweat trickling down your neck and soaking into your dress as an orgasm rushed over you.

Your body felt powerless, and if not for Joel’s strong hands still holding you up, you’d have fallen back. But he kept you somewhat steady, lapping up all that your wasted body could give him until every swipe of his tongue started being painful and you had physically push his face away with trembling hands.

“Got too enthusiastic, my bad. Ain’t every day I get to drink from a fountain of youth.” Joel joked, helping you settle next to him in his bed.

Your tired body was half laying on top of him, fully drained yet still unexplainably insatiable. Forced by something deep in the pit of your belly, you dragged your nails over his soft stomach until you touched his soft cock again. Joel quickly stopped you, grabbing your wrist and bringing your hand to his chest. You felt the sparse hairs on his nipple tickle your palm. His heartbeat was hard, but steady.

“Sorry, angel, ain’t that young anymore.” He said, kissing the crown of your head. His fingers found their way into your hair and he tugged at it gently. “If you want me to fuck that pretty hole of yours, you’ll just have to agree to a second date.”

Your words were slurred, eyelids too heavy to keep them open. “Maybe I will, old man.” 

He chuckled, the grip of his fingers in your hair tightened as he looked in the distance. A couple of flickering street lamps visible from his window were providing minimum light in his room and a possessive smile creeped onto his lips as he listened to you snoring lightly into his chest.

You weren't the first mouse to get trapped so easily, but something told him you were special. He wasn't ready to discard you just yet.

LEAVE A COMMENT, YOUR FEEDBACK IS MY MOTIVATION <3

[ceilidho]

prompt: construction worker ghost and his elementary school teacher neighbour who made the poor decision to start feeding him (nsfw, 2k) [based on this old ask] [on ao3 here]

-

They say not to feed wild animals. 

It makes them grow soft, lazy. Alters their behaviour. Takes an animal previously capable of finding its own food dependent on humans for sustenance. Makes them lose their natural fear of humans and nearly always results in an increase in human-wildlife conflicts as they start to seek out people. It’s a known fact. You can’t go to a park without seeing it plastered on posters in the bathroom and on the sides of the vending machines under the gazebos where you purchase your post-hike iced tea and veggie roll to eat on a nearby bench. 

You know this. So you really don’t know what possessed you to leave a cooler full of sandwiches on your neighbour’s doormat before turning in for the night. 

He wakes up preternaturally early and leaves every morning around four-thirty or five o’clock on the dot. Sometimes in the fog of sleep, you wake to hear the door to the apartment beside yours crack open and slam shut, and then the sound of lumbering footsteps down the hall towards the staircase before that door opens and slams shut too. 

He never comes home before four o’clock at the earliest. That’s around when you come home from work as well, meaning that you sometimes catch him at the door, him covered in grime and reeking of old sweat while you come flouncing down the hall in whatever colourful dress you’d donned that morning, inevitably paint-splattered by the end of the day. Always something appropriate to wear at an elementary school but colourful enough to keep the kids’ eyes and attention on you. 

You’ve caught his name in half-whispered conversations with the property manager, but aside from that, all you know about Simon Riley is that he works in construction. He certainly looks the part: big, calloused hands with blunt, dirt-caked nails and cut up fingers, knuckles always swollen and thick. Body all strength and brawn. Hard hat tucked under his armpit and decorated with countless stickers from old job sites, the same way his forearm is covered in tattoos. 

You’ve even passed by his current job site once or twice—some new condo complex going up by the canal that’s forced you and hundreds of other commuters to leave an extra thirty minutes early to account for the road closures. You pointedly don’t bring that up in conversation though. That would just be rude. 

At least it would be something to talk about though.

It’s not like the two of you talk. You’re not close by any means. Though you moved in a few months ago, you haven’t had much luck mustering up the confidence to squeak out more than a hi to him in passing. When he grunts back something approximating a hello, it’s all you can do not to break your key in the lock when you hurry into your apartment and slam the door shut behind you, heart beating frantically in your chest. 

It’s humiliating. You’re a grown woman and you’ve talked to plenty of men before. You’ve dated plenty of men before. Just because this one speaks in monosyllables and stares at you with an intensity that makes your stomach churn and your palms grow sweaty doesn’t change anything. Just because this one is built like a redwood with wrists thick enough that you’d need both hands to wrap around doesn’t make him any different than any other person.

And yet, when Simon asks you for your name on a rainy June afternoon after you’ve come in after him for a change only to find him sifting through letters at the mailbox, you garble out something that sounds nothing like your name before scurrying up the stairs to your flat.

It’s humiliating. It’s humid outside and your dress is sticking to all the wrong places (namely, your nipples and the inside of your thighs when the skirt swishes between your legs with each stride) and now you’ve made an ass of yourself in front of the only hot guy in your building. There are serial arsonists with more charm than you. 

So maybe the sandwiches are an apology letter or an olive branch. Or maybe it just makes your heart race to think of Simon opening up the cooler and finding four wax paper-wrapped sandwiches tucked neatly over ice packs. 

All you know is that when you step out of your apartment the next morning, the cooler is empty on your doormat, the lid propped open. He must have taken them with him. 

You smile. A job well done. Apology served fresh, with cucumber slices in the middle. 

The problem starts when you don’t leave him another cooler full of sandwiches on his doormat the next day. 

You didn’t consider that he might think you’d make it a habit. Perhaps that’s partially on you for not leaving a note on the cooler the first time to explain that it was just a one-off; just a way to apologize for being less than chipper around him. But instead of shrugging it off, you come home after a long day to find him standing right outside your apartment, arms crossed over his chest, thick biceps straining against his sweat-stained shirt. 

“Open the door,” Simon commands, nostrils flaring as he glares down at you. He jerks his head towards your door when you just frown, not following. “Been starving here waiting for you to show up.”

You open your mouth to say something, but nothing comes out. You’re at a loss for words, never mind that your whole job involves talking. He leaves you speechless though. 

Simon doesn’t move when you step close enough to unlock the door. You try to keep your body angled away so as not to brush up against him, but it’s inevitable. He doesn’t move when the door opens either, forcing you to squeeze by him. 

He goes straight to the kitchen and drags a chair out, letting it scrape across the floor like men always do before taking a seat. You follow after him nervously, apprehensive at having a man in your space. Not just a man, but Simon Riley. It feels sacrilege—not like he has no right being in your space, but you can’t imagine him here, sitting at your tiny dining room table like he comes over for dinner every Sunday. 

When he catches you standing under the archway to the kitchen just staring at him, he barks, “Well?”

That has you scurrying over to the fridge to pull out the cold cuts and pickled red onions. There’s a loaf of bread already on the counter, the bag twisted and tucked underneath because you had to leave in a rush this morning. You don’t know half of what you pile on the sandwiches, but whatever you serve him must satisfy him because Simon digs in with gusto, finishing the plate off in only a few bites while you wash the cutlery in the sink. You watch him out of the corner of your eye the whole while.

He leaves not too long after that, only a light warning for you to not miss tomorrow’s lunch before heading back over to his own apartment. You don’t even get a word in edgewise. 

It becomes something of a routine after that and not one you have any control over. Every night before bed, you leave him a cooler full of sandwiches and other things like cut up fruit or slices of cheese on his doormat, and every afternoon you rock up to him waiting on your doorstep, demanding to be let in. 

He takes to giving you a wet kiss before he leaves, all tongue and his fingers curled around the nape of your neck, holding you in place. When you try to cover his mouth with your hand, he nips at your fingers until you move them and let him slip you some tongue. 

The day you make him a casserole for supper, he bends you over the back of your couch and eats you out. Simon eats like a man starving, glutting himself on the wetness between your legs, licking even over the furl of your asshole and chuckling under his breath when you squeal and flail, your toes just brushing against the floor. 

In the aftermath, you sit panting in his lap while he eats. He gets up only briefly to get the bowl of strawberries and cream you left chilling in the fridge before lifting you up and putting you right back in his lap. You stare bleary-eyed when he holds a finger covered in cream up to your lips.

“Clean me up, pet,” he says, then watches you with half-lidded eyes while you lick his finger clean. 

He makes you suck his fingers too, to keep things even. He does it when you’re angled half off the bed, thick digits stuffed down your throat until your eyes leak big, fat tears that he licks away, hungry for those too. The man is always hungry, always keen to fill his belly. 

The arrangement continues on long enough to become normal, even routine. Simon shows up at your door every day after work waiting to be fed, and then makes you come a couple times before he leaves, a little thank you to repay you for the food. He never really says all that much when he comes around, not a conversationalist of a man. His preference is to eat, fuck, and leave, which you’re happy to accommodate, still too tongue-tied yourself to broach a real conversation. 

That’s all before he starts helping himself to your bed for a quick nap after a big supper. Then for naps that turn into a full night’s sleep, snoring like a chainsaw under the covers with you tucked under his arm, naked breasts pressed against his side, keeping you awake most of the night until you pass out somewhere around one A.M. 

Just as you suspected, Simon gets up at around four or five to be at the jobsite on time, but at your place, he gets up a bit earlier to help himself to breakfast. He doesn't even bother waking you up, just turns you over onto your tummy and spreads your legs before sinking his dick into where you're still stretched out from the night before. If you wake up or squirm, he just leans down and murmurs, “S'alright, pet…just need a pick me up before work. Go back to sleep, you’re okay,” and ruts between your thighs until he comes inside you and leaves you all wet in bed with one last messy kiss to your temple. 

The door slams shut on his way out. 

Because you feed him, he keeps coming back. The workday passes in a blur: attendance, a spelling test, recess, maths in the afternoon, and then you’re driving home in the same daze that has you slamming on the brakes before rear ending an old woman who stopped two cars behind the truck at the redlight ahead. 

You’re home earlier than him for a change, so you unlock the door quickly while there’s still a chance to avoid him. No such luck. When Simon turns up, he pounds on the door until you let him in. And you do. 

It’s a wonder you haven’t come apart at the seams, horny and pent up after this morning. You were too sleepy to come after all, rode hard and put away wet. Still, you flit nervously around the apartment, looking everywhere but at him. 

He always smells rich after working all day in the sun, like sweat and dirt. It's not a particularly nice smell, but it still kind of gets you going. He goes for a shower and then collapses on the couch after, beckoning you over to you crawl into his lap and grind yourself on his thigh because he knows of course. Simon can probably smell it on you, the ache. He shushes you when you whine about it, big hands fitting around your hips and pressing you down until your clit rubs deliciously against the muscle of his thigh and your head goes cloudy, cheek mushed against the pillow of his chest. 

When you come, Simon tips your chin up with his knuckle and murmurs, “Knickers off, love. Haven’t got my fill.”

He feeds you your own slick from his fingers when he kneels on the floor in front of the couch, your legs draped over his shoulders. Your fingers scratch helplessly over shorn blond hair, buzzed almost to the scalp. It’s prickly under your fingertips. 

Simon’s a messy eater. Your slick dribbles down his lips and glistens on his chin. It makes the blood roar under your skin, feverishly hot. 

“Please, Simon,” you whine, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes. “It hurts.”

You feel his lips quirk up against the folds of your pussy, the flat of his tongue running up the seam and flicking over your clit. He chuckles when your hips jerk. “Greedy aren’t you, pet? Didn’t even say thank you for getting on my knees.”

“You didn’t make me come!”

His voice borders on mocking when he coos, “Poor little thing. It’s gonna be a lot longer ‘til she gets to come if you don’t say thank you.”

Your brain goes staticy, fingers twitching on his scalp. His words echo back in your head. It’s rubbish, is what it is. All this time and he’s never said thank you once for the countless meals you’ve fed him. Indignation bubbles up in you, rising to the surface like fat on the cream, and you raise a hand to rub the tears from your eyes, a harsh rebuke on the tip of your tongue.

The protest dies on your lips when he meets your gaze. It’s hungrier than anything you’ve ever seen. Whatever animal lives under his skin stares back at you with black eyes, drool leaking from its jowls. It’s mindless, intent only on slaking its hunger. Filling its empty belly. And it is not afraid of you anymore. It knows you’ll feed it until it’s full. It knows you won’t let it go hungry anymore. 

So, always leery of the bigger animal in the room, you mumble out a chest-thick, “Thank you,” and shiver when he grins. 

There’s a reason they tell you not to feed strays. They often come back for more.

[erwinsvow]

𝐜𝐨𝐥𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐭 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐞 — 𝐚.𝐜.

summary: when andrew opens the backseat of the car, you're looking up at him with wet eyes and tied hands, silent and compliant just like he knew you would be. and even though this definitely isn't one of his best ideas, staring down at you, he thinks it's definitely not his worst either.

word count: 19k

tags: kidnapping! probably out of character for pope but i tried. heavy stockholm syndrome, being eaten out in the forest after being chased through said forest. mentions of masturbation and pope watches (1) one time, cameras/monitoring without consent, daydreams of thigh riding because duh, mating press/breeding/creampie, things from the show that didn't make sense aren't included. yippee! :)

note: shea 'sweden' erwinsvow strikes again.

andrew thinks that their plan had been incredibly solid.

they were supposed to be in and out—deran in a nice suit, disguised as a potential parent looking for a good school for his kids. if anyone asked, he had two of them, four and six, and his partner was home with them since their youngest was sick right now, otherwise he would have brought the whole family. 

he distracted the people outside with questions while andrew and the others were supposed to make quick work of the principal’s office. at first when the job was pitched, it sounded stupid. why would the principal of some fancy private school have money stored away in his office from their stupid fundraisers and open-house? but a little deep diving had revealed that the principal was skimming from the top, and the leftover money and anything else they could use as leverage against him was probably in that office somewhere. if there was a safe, they might take the whole thing with them.

and that led to another can of worms—how do they get out with the safe? getting in was the easy part. deran and baz and andrew dressed in nice clothes blending in, craig pretending to be a caterer with the event, j waiting in a construction truck down the road. but getting out, let alone with a safe, would be difficult. they had to look at blueprints, smuggled from the town hall through a contact they didn’t even want to use. 

andrew didn’t know what to think of the whole thing. it felt like too much work for an undetermined reward, though the others didn’t seem to agree with him. they kept saying it would be worth it and outnumbered, feeling as though despite what he said they wouldn’t agree with him, he complied. 

the blueprints revealed an out through an adjacent room—they didn’t know who was occupying until they went in to canvas after hours, pretending to check the smoke detectors. andrew stood in front of the closed door, staring at a cute, childish sign printed in loopy writing: school nurse. 

but there was a window large enough for any safe they encountered and just a wall of plaster separating the two. they wouldn’t even need any heavy machinery to get through the walls and out the window to the car. the open house was scheduled for a saturday, meaning the school nurse, who ever it was, wouldn’t be there. 

so all in all, a solid plan from what information they had gathered. saturday morning, andrew put on a long-sleeved button up shirt and an uncomfortable tie and walked into the school.

(playing pretend was more fun than he would like to admit. a stranger came up to him and asked him how old his daughters were and he actually laughed. “how do you know i have daughters?” he had asked, and the stranger had looked at him, laughing in reply. “you look the type,” and then andrew had to tear his mind away from the thought for the next hour, trying to forget the momentary joy the sentence had brought him. he looked the type. and then he said he had twin daughters, about to start first grade, and the lie felt sweet on his tongue.)

it’s always the jobs where everything’s going according to plan. those are the ones where something always ends up going wrong because it’s when you least expect it. that’s what had led to his arrest—and he was extra mindful now, trying in his head to think of all the ways this could go wrong.

they had made it inside the school. snuck into the nurse’s office—a cutely decorated place with lollipops and crackers in big jars and fun colors strewn throughout. the desk is against the wall they’re carving up and there’s cute decorations on it. a vase with fresh flowers. a mug with cartoon characters on it. there’s a huge poster in the shape of a tooth and then bright letters above it spelling out lost tooth club. there’s dozens of names written on and under the poster, a basket of toys and stickers. 

baz is about to start swinging right in the middle of another bulletin board, prettily decorated with hours of work. the letters had been cut by hand, little paper flowers glued together individually. it said spread kindness, not germs in large yellow letters. 

“d-don’t ruin the poster. go next to it.” he doesn’t know why he said it. they were already robbing a school, it’s not like the punishment would be worse because he left a poster untouched. but it felt wrong to demolish the nurse’s office and destroy her hard work. 

they get a hole big enough in the wall, even find the safe and get it out into the nurse’s office to the open window. everything according to plan. everything going as best as it could.

and then the door swings open and you walk in.

you take two, maybe three steps before stopping in your tracks and staring at the scene in front of you with wide, unblinking eyes.  

“oh. oh, i-” they’re not wearing ski masks this time, not worried about it since there wasn’t any cameras in the two offices. and now you’ve seen their faces.

“grab her, pope!” he hears from baz, and without thinking twice about it, he does. a huge hand goes over your mouth, silencing you, and the other around your two wrists. it’s easy to subdue you, and you thrash up against him but it’s over quickly.

andrew keeps them pinned down while baz runs over with rope for your hands and then he’s taking you outside through the window, to the truck, and despite how badly he feels about it, he holds you tight and tells you not to scream. while they load up the safe and hop into the truck he keeps his hand still tight across your mouth. your eyes are filled with fear, huge and watery and your body trembles like a shaking, frightened animal.

andrew leans in, unsure of why he’s even doing it, and whispers as quiet as he can without the others hearing you. 

“i promise i won’t hurt you.” 

a drive later, they pull up to the house, though they really should have taken you somewhere else. as carefully as they can without prying eyes from the neighbors, he carries you out and they put you in andrew’s bedroom, and then they lock the door from the outside.

+

you come to a little bit later, unsure of when you had passed out. the entire thing feels like a bad dream—a nightmare after watching one of your shows too late before bed, but when you blink open your eyes and stare around the room, you realize this not a nightmare. 

this is so much worse.

your wrists are bound to the bedframe with thick rope, made of fibers that dig into your skin and leave it raw and scorched underneath. you stop fighting against it to preserve your strength and stare around the room. 

plain painted walls and a navy blue comforter under your body. you’re in the room of one of these men who took you—you can tell that much, despite how barren the room is. 

you’d think it was a guest room if you didn’t know any better. but there’s folded laundry at the foot of the bed and a half-open closet where you can see button up shirts hanging neatly. there’s nothing else to identify where you even are, though you’re sure it can’t be too far from the school.

you don’t know what to do now. for all your smarts and the crazy shows you love so much and using logic to help you through other situations, you have no idea what to do right now. there’s no way to escape the rope and no way to figure out where you are. 

fuck. no one at school even knew you were there, or someone might have noticed you were missing. but it’s an open house for the next school year and the last day of classes was the previous week. you’re out for the summer, meaning no one there would notice your absence.

you didn’t know many of the teachers at the school. the secretaries you passed on the way to your little nurse’s office every day were polite, but not much more than that. the principal only ever came to speak to you if he needed to speak with the student you were with. 

and your friends, well—

you don’t think many of them would notice if you went missing. fuck. you should have never cancelled plans so many times. you should have put in more effort to going to mixers and staying in touch when school ended and done all the things that normal people do because now—

you hear people talking from outside, sounding a little far away but still clear, like they’re raising their voices, and the ones inside your head die down immediately.

if you shut your eyes to try and pay attention to it, you can make sense of the conversation taking place, though your head is pounding and it’s hard to focus.

“she didn’t see anything,” you hear a man argue, and then he’s interrupted by second person.

“she saw our faces, man. that’s risking too much-”

“we need to take care of this,” a woman says, and then there’s a pause.

and outside, with his mind still on the promise he made you, andrew stares at smurf, as she finishes her sentence.

“you need to take care of this, andrew.” 

it was a screwed up job to begin with. they should have never done it—no matter the fact that there’s almost twice what their jobs normally make sitting in the safe next to them right now. that money is about to become blood money. and as always, andrew has to do the dirty work.

“i didn’t even want to do this job. and you’re-you’re going to make me fix this-”

“andrew,” smurf says, and it feels final with the tone she uses. the tone of, of course you’re going to fix this. as if the burden doesn’t weigh on his shoulders with every step he takes. doesn’t plague his mind within every single thought. like these responsibilities that he has to handle and take care of aren’t the very reason he can’t sleep at night. 

deran and craig looked checked out—staring at him like they don’t already know the answer. baz look at him expectantly and it’s so easy for him to do so. he gets to go home each night to a wife that loves him and a daughter that adores him and gets to put his head against his pillow and hold his wife with unmarred, clean hands because andrew will take care of it. 

he looks up at smurf and he knows what will happen if he resists. if he says no to this, she might do something to you herself, and your blood will still he on his hands.

“okay." andrew says, and that’s that. 

“alright. wait until it’s darker outside-”

“i know what to do.”

and inside the bedroom, dread creeps in slowly into your body until it consumes you entirely. you process the words—that andrew, whoever he is, whichever one he is, will take of it. take care of you. 

you almost want to laugh with how incredibly unreal this is. getting kidnapped is the craziest thing that’s ever happened to you in your short life and now it’s going to be the reason that you die. 

dead, just like that, over a robbery at a goddamn private school. dead, waiting for the executioner to come get you from his bedroom while they talk about your life over their table like it’s nothing but lunch-time conversation. 

you thought adrenaline was supposed to make you near superhuman, make you do something, figure out how to get out of here and run for your life. nothing’s coming to mind just yet, though, as you stay frozen on the bed and wait to hear if the people who took you say anything else.

the door opens suddenly and you flinch—you hadn’t heard any footsteps and he caught you by surprise.

this must be andrew, which means he’s the same one who covered your mouth and took you to begin with. he opens the door and stares at you, keeping eye contact as he shuts the door behind him and comes in closer. you should stare back, try to convince him (and yourself) that you’re not afraid of him, but you’re not that girl. 

you look away the second he takes a step closer to the bed. andrew doesn’t stop, coming in closer until he’s sitting at the edge. you scramble to sit up, bringing your knees in closer to your chest, trying to make yourself smaller and get away from him all at once. it’s a hot day and you’re in a thin dress that comes down to right above your knees—and the fabric slides up as you scramble.

you were supposed to go pack up whatever you needed from your office and then stop to get a coffee from your favorite shop near the school and read the book that’s currently sitting on your desk at work—if it was still there. you don’t know what they did to the room after andrew took you to the truck.

your day was supposed to be for you, for once. an iced drink and the romance-comedy you read in your free time between little kids who didn’t feel good and lunch at a local place to celebrate another school year coming to an end. 

and now you’re about to walk to your death, refusing to make eye contact with the man who’s going to be killing you.

as morbid as the thought is, you wonder how he’ll do it. he said he wouldn’t hurt you but the decision sounded pretty final out there, at least it did to you. something painless, hopefully? 

you’ve watched enough shows to know all the ways but your mind runs empty. you finally move your gaze back to andrew in the corner of the bed, sitting and staring at you. you can see his shoulders rise with every deep breath, can hear the sharp exhale from his nose after each one. you want to say something. you think you should plead for your life.

but the way andrew’s looking at you, you almost believe what he said to you in the truck. i promise i won’t hurt you. 

how could he have promised you such a thing?

when he finally speaks up, it begins to make sense, you think. that, or you’re not nearly as smart as you thought you were.

“i have to take you away from here.” 

“i-i heard you. outside. you promised-”

“i’m not going to hurt you. just-just, when i take you out there, pretend to be scared.”

“what?”

“p-pretend to be scared. hit me and-and fight. i’m gonna tape your mouth.”

“what? no-”

“just listen to me,” he says, and it comes out differently from the other words he’s said to you. it’s final and stern, and the way his hazel eyes stare into yours, you really believe him, as incredulous as the thought is. “i’ll get you out of here. just listen to me. i’m not killing you. i’m not killing anyone.” 

his sentences sound as though he’s trying to convince himself, rather than you, and you have to physically shove the thought aside before you burst into tears from how scared you are. but andrew, for everything you can tell, is being honest with you.

you’re halfway decent, you’d like to think, at telling when people are lying. students come into your nurse’s office every single day trying to lie to you, trying to avoid a certain peer or a certain class or assignment, filling your ears with lies about aching stomachs and pounding heads.

you’ve got your own ways of telling truths from lies, and andrew, with his never-ending eye contact and firm words, is telling the truth.

at least you hope he is.

“o-okay. okay, i will.”

you do try your best to put on the show—pounding on andrew’s back, crying out against the duct tape he puts over your mouth—and have to remind yourself it’s not really a performance. you’re just as terrified as you were an hour ago but something inside you twists and turns at andrew’s sincere-sounding words. you don’t look at any of the others there, don’t try to meet their eyes because they might see that you’re not really as scared as you should be.

he puts you in the bed of the truck under a black cover, and you stare up at him with real fear. even if you weren’t claustrophobic, the enclosed area induced anxiety in you from the moment you figured out what he was doing. you think this might be it—your only chance to make a run for it, if you could wrangle out of andrew’s incredibly strong grip, if you could keep your balance with your tied ankles. 

and then he looks down at you and shakes his head slightly, so slightly that the movement is almost undetectable. there’s eyes on him—of this you’re sure—and he still tries to remind you that he won’t hurt you when he feels your body tense up under his hands.

you kick your feet without much energy behind it and let andrew push you into the bed of the truck. he gets in and starts driving, and then a few minutes later, he pulls over.

you blink up at him stupidly when he helps you out, thinking that he’s letting you go just a few miles from his home. you try to speak but there’s still duct tape over your mouth. andrew gives you his hand to help you sit up and then opens the backseat door of his truck for you, helps you inside, and then keeps driving.

and against every greater instinct you have or have been taught, you sit in the back quietly and let him drive you wherever he’s taking you, stupidly assuming it’s to safety. 

you hope he’s taking you to safety. 

no, you think—still a little stupidly—you know he’s taking you to safety.

+

andrew drives you for what feels like forever. wherever he’s taken you, it’s far from the house you were at and far from the school, meaning it is also far from your tiny apartment. you watch the sunset from the back seat and wonder who, if anyone, would even notice you’re missing this early. 

your rent and bills are on auto-pay. the sweet, older lady who lives alone next to you forgets her own name sometimes. and staring at the back of andrew’s head—dark brown curls that glow auburn when the golden sun hits them—you realize there’s really no way out of this.

through, it is.

it’s dark when the car finally slows down on an empty dirt road. you don’t recognize any of the scenery, but andrew drives through the terrain like he’s well acquainted with it, avoiding bumps and ditches easily. when he stops the car, you sit up a little straighter in the back.

you should be thankful he didn’t keep you in the bed of the truck the entire time, thankful that he let you realize you’re about two hours from home. thankful that he hasn’t hurt you yet, just like he had promised.

your wrists and ankles ache. every muscle in your body is screaming at you from the adrenaline rush that did absolutely nothing to help you get out of this situation. and though a smarter girl might try to knock andrew out and run through the woods until you found someone to help you, you’re beginning to realize you’re not nearly as smart as you think you are. 

everything in you is telling you to trust him and listen to his instructions and make him keep his promise by not giving him any reasons to hurt you. 

he turns the car off, takes a deep breath, and then opens his door to get out. then he opens your door and stares down at you.

this is just like a scene from one of your crime shows. you can’t believe that’s the thought in your head right now, but it’s the only thing coming to mind. the specifics of the show merge into all the others, but you remember something about making eye contact and trying to humanize yourself so the kidnapper remembers you’re a person and not just an object.

so you need to look into his eyes. and you think that’s easy enough, that you can do it and that he’ll realize how obscenely wrong this entire situation is and let you go home tonight.

you flick your eyes up to meet his. you knew he was already staring at you but it’s somehow so much worse than you could have imagined. he’s not just looking, his eyes are boring into your soul. he doesn’t look away or blink, just keeps his gaze focused while staying completely silent. you’ve never been good at eye contact or being particularly demanding or combative, but you think this is an emergency and surely, you can manage for now.

you last all of two seconds before looking away. 

you focus on the ropes on your wrist and how irritated the skin underneath looks and you let andrew figure out whatever it is he needs to figure out in silence, save for your breaths.

“c’mon,” he says after some time. “inside. come on.”

he gives you his hands to help you up—you guess at the very least, at least he’s chivalrous—and then he holds you by the rope to guide you. he’s not even pulling very hard on it but the force is enough to make sure you don’t go running and screaming in the opposite direction. 

you realize you should have tried to take in the exterior of the cabin as soon as you walk inside, something else that your shows should have taught you, but you’re too busy being pulled around by andrew like a ragdoll. he brings you inside and then flips light switches.

the place is, for a kidnapper’s secondary location, quite nice. it looks like it was decorated a few decades ago—entire place shrouded in gingham and floral prints with vintage looking light fixtures and bookshelves with dust bunnies. you can’t imagine he picked these things out himself, especially not when you remember how bare-bones his bedroom was.

this place is much nicer. homey and dusty and quiet, you conclude after looking around. andrew doesn’t tell you to sit so much as he puts you down in a love seat and leaves you there, tied and taped up, waiting for him to come back. he walks into another room, which you can only assume is the kitchen, and then comes back.

“oh. i-i’m sorry,” he says and your eyes shoot up to him, unsure of why he’s apologizing. he gets closer and lifts his hand and you flinch, before his fingers go to the duct tape covering your mouth. you wince while he pulls it off, slowly and then faster, like he’s trying to get it over with faster, and you can’t help the tears that well up and slip down while he does it. you thought in vain that it might feel like a bandaid. it didn’t.

andrew apologizes again and you try to tell him it’s fine, but it doesn’t come out. your mouth is dry and you realize you haven’t had any water since you got taken at the school, so it comes out in a choked fragment of a sentence. 

you finally find the courage to look up at him with wet, blinking eyes.

“can i have water?” it comes out as a whisper, and andrew doesn’t say anything, just rushes back to the kitchen and comes back out with a half-filled glass. he almost hands it to you before realizing your hands are still tied and then he brings it to your mouth, tilting the glass so you can drink it. he doesn’t do it too quickly, making sure you don’t choke on it, but a droplet still runs down the side of your mouth. when he takes the cup away you stare up at him.

he almost lifts his hand to wipe away the water. his fingers twitch over the empty glass.

“how long do i have to stay here?” 

andrew pauses like he’s thinking about the answer. the truth, of course, is that he doesn’t know how long you have to stay. the answer to your question is that you’ll stay as long as he wants. 

“i don’t know. as long as it takes.”

“as long as what takes?”

“the bedroom is over here. come on.” 

+

andrew, for all you have learned about him, remains very chivalrous. it’s been two days, and you keep track with a piece of scrap paper in the room he keeps you in. he brought you in here and kept you tied up while he made sure all the windows in the house couldn’t be opened anymore and did something to the door too, you’re sure, though you didn’t actually get to see it.

he probably didn’t have to go through all that trouble. you conclude after forty-eight hours that you have terrible survival skills and are closer to being a perfect victim, a thought that makes your stomach turn. but you are, really. you haven’t once tried to fight him, save for the time he told you to, and the thought of escaping is a miniscule idea buried in the very back of your head. 

you eat what he makes—though you are getting very tired of dry sandwiches and sugary cereal—and drink the water he gives you. 

you think he’s testing you. and you have never, ever been one to fail a test. you comply with his instructions even when it’s incredibly embarrassing, like when he asks you how he should respond when you get texts and calls to your cell-phone. with your face burning you tell him there’s probably not going to be any of those to worry about, and he stares at you while you evade his eye contact. 

(if you had just looked, you would have recognized the way he’s staring at you. it’s different than the others. like he’s just unlocked a new piece of you with this information. it’s good that you didn’t, though. it makes him want to keep you all the more.)

andrew hasn’t been obvious enough with his absence that the others have noticed—yet. he needs to go back to oceanside and stay there, and this two hour drive he’s been doing for days isn’t exactly helping him. the first night he’d driven back at three in the morning, after you’d fallen asleep and he’d made sure everything was locked until he came back in the morning, and he’d had to deal with smurf, awake and waiting for him, waiting for the proof that he had taken care of it. taken care of you. 

the day after, baz stops him when he’s on his way out, to come back to see you, to tell him about a new plan he had for a job.

he realizes that the closer they get to a new job, the less he’d be able to come to the cabin. it seems there’s only one obvious solution—letting you leave the bedroom you’ve been confined to when he’s not there with you. so far he’d let you into the living room while he’s there, and the two of you sit in silence. (that silence is better than any conversation he’s had with his family in the last month, but you don’t need to know that.)

and the only way to make sure you’re alright in the cabin when he’s not there is to physically watch you and be sure of it, which means the real solution to andrew’s problem is cameras.

he installs them while you’re asleep. it’s only been a few days and you don’t make much noise as it is but when he hears the soft snoring, he knows you’re out. one in the living room and another in the kitchen, and a final one outside the cabin. the man at the store had explained it had motion sensors and would alert his phone if animals or people were outside. at the time, it seemed like a perfectly good idea. 

the man at the store had said something else too, something about how this is the best safety system and it’s what he uses at home to keep his family safe and he would recommend it for andrew’s wife and kids too. and maybe the assumption that he was doing all of this for your protection got to his head a little too quickly.

he’s been down that road before, but he still installs them all the same.

he lets you out of the room and tells you he’ll be back in a few days and that there’s food in the fridge and you can move around the house if you’d like. you look at him like you’re surprised, with less fear than he anticipated, and nod. and then you tell him quietly, so quiet he can barely hear it—thank you. 

(you wait for a reaction, but you don’t get one. he takes another heavy breath and then leaves, closing the door behind him and then locking it how he always does, leaving you alone again. and somehow, it feels so much worse to be alone.)

andrew drives for a few minutes before he gives into the urge of checking the camera’s footage. he sees you padding carefully through the living room, stopping at the bookshelf and reading all the titles. 

he checks it again throughout the day, even though he really shouldn’t. he runs the risk of someone seeing it over his shoulder and you have become something he really, really doesn’t want to share with his brothers. 

he doesn’t know how to do this. it’s not like he’s ever kidnapped someone before. he didn’t have any time to think it through, to make a plan, to gather supplies. he’s here in oceanside—maybe he should stop by your apartment. he has your phone and your purse and that should be enough to determine your address, and he can figure out how to get inside. maybe he should bring you some of your belongings, so you don’t feel as…

andrew doesn’t know what word he can use there. he doesn’t know what you’re feeling. frightened, he supposes. maybe it won’t make you feel as frightened if you had some of your things with you. he could bring you puzzles and books and the types of things that girls need with them—little bottles of expensive products and sweet smelling perfumes and whatever else you’d like. if it would make you more comfortable, he’d bring it.

fuck. and clothes—he needs to bring you clothes. you’ve been wearing the same dress the entire time and he hasn’t brought you anything to change into. if he goes to your home, he can bring some of your clothes.

(every time he’s come to the cabin so far, every time he’s opened the door, he waits in the foyer. he hears your footsteps padding up to the bedroom door, sees your shadow underneath it, like you’re making sure you didn’t imagine the noise. and when he goes over and unlocks it, you’re waiting for him in your sundress on the bed and the thought makes him so distracted he has to pull himself away from it. he has to close the door shut in his mind because if he doesn’t, he’s going to get so hard he can’t think anymore. and suddenly his mind fills in the blanks and he decides if he goes to your closet, he’ll only bring you dresses back.)

when andrew checks the video feed again, he’s noticed that you showered. he can tell from your wet hair, and for the first time, you’re not in the dress you were wearing when he took you. you’re in a plain shirt, one that’s too big on you. cotton and black.

one of his shirts. it’s from the dresser in the bedroom, he knows, since it’s only a one-bedroom home. the room he’s been keeping you in was supposed to be his room, and the drawers are filled with the clothes he’d brought there.

you’re wearing his clothes. and suddenly the thought of going to your apartment goes to hell. he’ll keep you in his clothes for as long as he can, until you say something or ask for something. (he knows you won’t. he’s figuring he knows an awful lot about you in a handful of days. that can’t be a coincidence, can it?)

and then craig says something about how he’s never seen andrew on his phone this much and you got some porn on there or something? and he shoves the device into his pocket and tries to remove you from his thoughts.

tries and fails, that is.

andrew gets a stinging scrape on his upper arm trying to get out of the job. he wasn’t actively thinking about you but he knows somehow he was distracted because of you, because he couldn’t put you out of his mind for thirty seconds longer, wondering if you were still awake on the couch or back in the bedroom and if you’d eaten and if you were maybe, just maybe, waiting up for him. 

he ignores the others telling him that he needs to get his arm fixed and he suffers through another hour at smurf’s, eating dessert that tastes like nothing, and then he gets in his truck and pulls out his phone.

and you’ve fallen asleep on the couch. he sighs, part relief mixed with something else. his arm seems to hurt less, he thinks. and then andrew drives two hours to go back home to you.

+

you wake up when the door opens. first your eyes flutter open, and then you turn your head to make sure it’s andrew—though the chance of it being someone else are nonexistent. then another thought, for a split second, racing through your body and mind like a strike of lightning.

you hope it’s never anyone but andrew opening that door.

you’re distracted from the thought when andrew groans, and you hear a pitter patter noise that sounds suspiciously like rain—but it’s not raining. when you lift yourself up in the dark, andrew’s leaning against the doorframe, raising his other hand to turn the switch on, and when the bulb flickers and light fills the cabin, you see it. blood, lots of it.

your instinct is to get on your feet right away, to usher andrew to the couch where you had fallen asleep and help him take his shirt off so you can see the wound clearly. 

you don’t panic, something you’ve gotten good at in your field. panicking makes the little kids even more frightened, so you’ve mastered the art of staying calm while assessing the situation. quick movements—your feet bring you to the bathroom for clean towels and hot water like you’ve lived here forever. 

you wash the wound carefully, pleased that it’s only skin-deep and that the bleeding should stop with some prolonged pressure. you sigh a breath of relief, holding the towel to his arm tightly, and then you realize you and andrew haven’t spoken a word this entire time.

you have to say something. you’re supposed to keep the patient distracted, get their mind off of their injury so they don’t subconsciously make it worse. you’ve always been good with your students, rambling about a new movie or what flavor lollipop they’ll pick on their way out and anything else that comes to mind.

but staring at andrew, realizing that you’ve forced yourself not to panic but feeling the dread still seep in, you realize you have nothing to say. you’re so thankful his wound isn’t too bad and logically, you compute, while his hazel eyes stare at you and you stare at his arm (a huge, thick bicep with veins that pulse under your touch), that it must be because if something happened to him, no one would ever find you. 

that has to be it. there’s no other reason why you should feel like this—and you can’t even describe what this is, you just know that it’s there, a pale glowing ball of thank god he’s okay hovering in the pit of your stomach, making you almost nauseous with how relieved you are. no other reason. 

you pull away the towel and the bleeding has stopped. you sigh again, reaching for another towel to wipe the wound clean and turning to meet andrew’s eyes, which are already on you, to ask him if he has a first aid kit. but he speaks first.

“thank you.” two words, said quietly, staring into the depths of your soul and not blinking once. you want to say something to make him smile but you don’t know how to do that. (yet.) 

“of-of course. first aid kit? i need a bandage. to wrap your arm.” 

“it’s under the sink. i can get it.”

“no, no,” you insist, letting go of andrew’s arm. your hand still feels warm where you were gripping him and his blood is all over your fingers. you dart off in the right direction and come back with the box, opening it up and seeing what you can use. 

you wrap it around his arm carefully, apologizing when you press against him in a way that makes him wince.

“you should buy some more bandages like this. the waterproof kind. when you can. and i-i can change the dressing for you,” you ramble, unsure of how to make andrew feel better, if you can at all. he might be more upset that you’re still talking and not shutting up, and still—

he brings his other hand around and clasps it around your wrist. he’s holding on tightly but it doesn’t hurt. that’s not his intention right now. you looked into his eyes when you felt his touch but that was a mistake. blinking quickly, you try to move your gaze anywhere but the man in front of you.

“can you look at me?” you can’t help it, it’s like your body has this urge to just listen to him, to comply, to try and please him with your deference. as painful as it is, you stare into his hazel eyes for what seems like ages. they’re mostly green but the brown is so much more apparent from this close to him. the realization is so stunning you almost feel like you’ve been zapped with an electric current—andrew has beautiful eyes. “thank you.” 

“oh. i-” you pause yourself before you say something that doesn’t make any sense. “of course. y-you saved my life. it’s the least i can do.”

and that realization is equally disorienting, like a bomb has been dropped between you two. he might have taken you and brought you here and kept you locked up but he did save you. from almost certain death.

andrew doesn’t say anything, even if he’s thinking something. he stares and when you try to look away again, he lets go of the hand on your wrist and brings it to the side of your face instead. he tilts your head towards him until you’ve locked eyes again. 

you think your heart is going to fall out of your chest with how fast it’s beating.

“stop looking away.” his words come out quietly.

andrew is so close to you, that almost by nature of instinct, your eyes flutter shut. you don’t know what exactly you’re expecting, and something inside of your brain screams at you, reminding you how incredibly stupid you’re being.

but then andrew brings you closer to him with his hand warm on your cheek and your lips brush his for a second, maybe two, and they’re soft just like you imagined, and then—

you two jump apart as his phone goes off. you don’t know how far back you jerked, but andrew lets go of your face immediately. he stands up to answer it, reminds you to be quiet by putting a finger in front of his lips.

"what is it, baz?"

you tiptoe back to the room and close the door as quietly as you can. and then you bury your head into the pillow.

stupid. stupid. stupid. kissing—or almost kissing, or whatever the hell that was—your captor. you seriously cannot descend into a further level of stupidity. as if your life was some badly written mafia romance, the kind you should be overindulging in right now instead of being locked up in a cabin with a complete stranger and then trying to kiss said stranger.

(do not, you’re forced to remind yourself over and over again, do not think about his green eyes and his soft lips and the way he held your face tenderly. do not. do not.) 

a little while later, you hear andrew’s voice quiet down and his footsteps come to your door. he stands outside and your heart picks up wondering if he’ll knock or come back in to finish what he started, but it settles into a dull thudding rhythm again once he walks away. then the unmistakable sound of the front door, his truck starting, and tires on the dirt road that leads to this place.

you don’t know why you let your expectations get carried away for a moment there. andrew’s not going to give you some grand, dramatic kiss or knock and give you a romantic speech from the other side of the door. that’s not him, you know that much at least. the crime television series are merging with the romantic books in your head and creating a perfect storm to cloud your senses. 

maybe it’s a good thing. maybe it’s a coping mechanism, or something. you’ll figure it out in therapy if andrew ever lets you go.

you open the door and go back to where you were sleeping on the couch. it’s comfortable, and it’d be perfect to curl up and watch a movie in, if there was a television around. you miss your laptop and post-work routine a little bit more than you have the entire time so far.

you want to get back under the blanket but you still feel flushed from the kiss, if you could even call it that. the almost, maybe-it-happened kiss. you lay on top of the blanket and stare at the ceiling and feel your heartbeat in your ears.

fuck. you really shouldn’t. but resisting it—especially when your eyes shut and you recall how andrew’s skin felt against yours, how it felt to be so close to him that you could see all his freckles, how he looked at you and made you look at him—takes every ounce of strength in your body. 

and you’re really, really not that strong. 

you lift up the shirt you’ve been wearing today, the one that’s undoubtedly his from the familiar detergent and the size of it, and your fingers find their familiar pattern themselves.

you trace little circles on your clit and keep your eyes closed tightly, like opening it and seeing what the hell you’re doing might chase away the orgasm that’s getting closer and closer. instead there’s other images—andrew’s arm tensing under your touch. the veins that go all the way down to his forearm. other places he might have veins like that. 

then it’s something else—the fact that he almost kissed you. what it could have led to, what it means for you. the fact that he wants you, that maybe he’s wanted you all along. that maybe that’s why he took you.

your orgasm hits you like a brick at that very thought. you ride yourself through it like you’ve always done, covering your mouth even though you don’t have neighbors here, sweaty and out of breath and satisfied but not entirely. like you know what it could have been like, that there’s someone who could have made it better in ways that you can’t even piece together right now.

you groan into the cushion, loudly, frustrated with yourself. it’s one thing to develop a lite version of stockholm syndrome but it’s another entirely to finish to the thought of the man. especially when you can’t remember the last time you had a feeling like this towards anyone. 

it’s just so stupid. you can’t get over it. you’re so stupid. the feeling of clarity washes over you but you still don’t completely understand it. you don’t know what it is about him. maybe you just want to be wanted—that has to be it. how else can you justify what you just did to the thought of your kidnapper? 

you lay back on the cushion and curl up under the blanket and with that thought haunting you, you fall asleep. 

and half-way to oceanside, andrew watches the feed for the living room and clenches his fist around the steering wheel. 

+

andrew comes back the next day, and you two don’t talk about anything, just like usual. you’re making yourself lunch when he opens the door and you look his way briefly, before heading back to make him a plate too. you try to justify it internally—he made you meals not so long ago. granted, you were tied up with rope at the time, but still, he could have let you starve and he didn’t.

it turns into a little habit. you’ve never particularly loved cooking but one of the dusty bookshelves in the house had a cookbook that you’ve been stealing recipes from. it’s just something to keep you a little busy and if you’re going to improve any of your skills, it might as well be this one.

it’ll still be useful to you when you leave. if you get to leave.

you’re not entirely sure but you think andrew likes having you there as a personal cook. he washes the dishes and cleans the kitchen without complaint, and he forces you out of there, not letting you help. it’s sweet, you think, watching him from the living room with whatever book you’re reading now. 

there’s other things too—he’s brought you books. you’re not sure from where, but you read them all the same, laughing internally when you think about if it’d be impolite to ask him for a dvd player or something.

you change the dressing on his wound each day, and it’s healing well so far. it’s been maybe four or five days since he got hurt—since you almost, maybe kissed him and then definitely, certainly orgasmed on his couch—and you feel…confused, for lack of a better word. 

you feel like you’re in a routine like how a couple who’s getting used to living with each other is—first tip toeing around, and then gaining comfort and ease, until finally, it feels normal.

this can’t be right—how routine it feels to make andrew lunch, even when you’re not sure if he’ll be back in time. to flip through a cookbook wondering what recipe he might like. to smile at him when he brings you another book since he somehow knows you’ve gone through most of the shelf already.

the days melt into each other—but you had expected that. you think asking andrew about an update in the whole letting you go free thing might upset him, and you still really, really want to avoid that.

so you remain confused and turbulent and fighting an internal dilemma between two sides of you. one that just wants to give in and stop thinking so hard about this and the other that thinks you should be scared for your life and stop pretending that this is anything besides what it really is—stockholm syndrome changing your brain chemistry and making you think that you’re going to be just fine.

while the two sides are duking it out, you and andrew continue the routine—or maybe it’s a charade, one side argues—like usual. you think it��s been two weeks of being cooped up in this house when he brings you a magazine.

“can you circle what you need?” 

you look up at him. he’s sort of trained you into the eye contact thing, and though you can’t withstand much of his intense staring, you’ve gotten marginally better at it. (you’re sure he’ll like that, that it must please him that you don’t always look away. and then you remind yourself where you are and your head begins to hurt.)

“yes. sure. thank you,” you say, opening up the catalog. there’s a section for clothes and another for beauty and skincare, and as stupid as it is, you still circle some of the makeup you like. and some of the stuff that you always deemed too expensive to buy, because if andrew’s paying, you might as well get to try it out. you justify it all—doing such elaborate mental gymnastics that you think you’d medal gold at this point. 

but that’s what you have to do, right? you ponder the thought as you hand andrew back the circled pages, with him telling you he’ll get the stuff as soon as he can. that new clothes and skincare might make you, at the very least, feel like a person. help you not lose all of your identity as you merge into this persona for andrew—personal chef and nurse and someone he almost, maybe kisses. 

and there’s other things too. when you wake up, he’s always hovering somewhere near you, as though he’d been watching you sleep. you guess there’s nothing inherently wrong with that—it sort of makes butterflies flutter around your stomach, since the idea that he likes to pass time by looking at you is very overwhelming—but you keep reminding yourself to stay rational. 

it’s hard to ground yourself but you need to keep it up—even though more often than not, thoughts of andrew, even when he’s not there with you, plague you, like you’re some teenager with a crush. 

it’s because you know, know deep down in your bones that some part of andrew likes some part of you. that you do, indeed, have a soft spot for your kidnapper, built from making lunches and conversations without words. that you ignore your instincts so much you’re not sure you can even call it an instinct anymore, because your newfound impulses just want to do whatever you can to please andrew, even when he doesn’t express it through words, just through eye contacts and barely there touches. 

the realization makes you want to throw up. there’s not enough justification in the world for this, it doesn’t matter if he said he wouldn’t hurt you or he makes sure you’re safe here.

it’s been more than two weeks now. he could have let you go. but then again, he could have done a lot of things.

you’re finishing making lunch when you notice it—that the door seems slightly ajar, like he’d forgotten one of the locks or something. maybe he had on the second trip out to get the groceries for you so you could start cooking. he used to make sure you were in the bedroom, locked inside, when he opened and closed the door. but he hadn’t done that in a few days.

because he trusted that you wouldn’t run. 

if the door is open, you could try to get outside while andrew is washing the dishes and cleaning up after the two of you eat. but it’s probably not—he’s much more careful than that.

but still, sitting at the tiny round dining table across from him, you can barely eat a few bites, heart racing at the idea. it’s stupid—the idea of running away. where would you even go? you don’t know the terrain, don't know where you are. you don’t even wear shoes in the house, prancing around barefoot in one of the new dresses andrew brought for you like some sort of twisted housewife.

once it got dark, you’d be in real trouble, with whatever wildlife is out here and how far away the main road is, if there was even other cars on it to begin with. you can’t remember much from the drive over here and you curse to yourself.

“something wrong?” andrew asks, and you blink at him dumbly.

“no, nothing. i-i-” quick. think of something. before he gets worried. “i just didn’t like this recipe as much as i thought i would. not my best work.” 

you try to laugh it off, even though your words sound stupid. andrew stares at you until your smiles melts away and you take a tiny bite.

“it tastes good to me,” he says, and you feel your heart fall. your idea seems further and further away.

like always, andrew takes the dishes to the kitchen and when you hear the sink turn on, you leave your spot on the table and go to the living room. but instead of taking a seat on the creaky couch and opening your book, you tiptoe to the door. 

your heart is beating so fast you can hear it in your ears, trembling hand reaching for the doorknob. 

and for the first time, it twists and gives way to the door opening. 

you are stupid, you conclude, for thinking about running away from this, from him. but you can’t get over the circumstances that led you here—his crazy family, the fact that he was partaking in a robbery of your goddamn school, that he had no issues with taking you to begin with. 

and despite the part of you that thinks you could really, really get used to this—or the harrowing reality of the fact that you already have—you step outside and start running.

but andrew has become somewhat of a bloodhound when it comes to you. he waits for the telltale signs that he always hears when he’s the kitchen—the groan of the sofa cushions as you sit down and get comfortable, the rustle of your book opening, the flap of the blanket as you spread it over your legs.

he knows because he’s always greeted with that same sight every time he comes out into the living room, one he’s become well acquainted with and has been the source of a rare piece of happiness for the last several days.

it takes him a few minutes to realize he didn’t hear it. another few to wonder if you went to the bedroom—but he didn’t hear any doors open or close. and it takes him about thirty seconds to realize his mistake with leaving the door unlocked because he was worried about the groceries in the back—specifically a pint of melted ice cream he brought here for you.

the dish clatters into the sink and he races out to the living room. andrew’s never been a religious man but he prays then, quietly to himself, just for a split second. hoping that you’re just curled up on the couch quietly, that when he turns the corner, you’ll still be there.

his heart skips a beat when he realizes that you’re not. then he walks through the open door with an understanding that he won’t stop running until he finds you.

+

hindsight really is twenty-twenty. 

you ran for maybe ten or fifteen minutes before realizing that this was a huge mistake—one that you can’t just repair with an apology and a sincere smile. just a while ago this felt like your only chance to get freedom and get as much distance between you and the kidnapper you’re half in love with—another realization that strikes you like something akin to a knife in the stomach. 

you keep running, bare feet getting achy already from the cold, hard dirt and rocks. you wonder if andrew’s noticed yet or if he’s still standing in the kitchen. he’s going to be so disappointed. and all this time, you’ve been trying so hard to avoid that very thing. all your effort was for nothing—it’s not like he’ll forgive you for this. 

you’ve gotten so far that you don’t recognize anything, and with your muscles burning, you slow down. you can’t stop for long—you don’t know where the nearest road is, and it might be an hour of running before you get there. 

you try to catch your breath and get back up to keep going, when a thought crosses your mind.

what are you really scared of? because it can’t be staying with andrew—he’s done nothing but take care of you. it can’t be that he’ll hurt you, because he’s already had the chance to do so a thousand times and he’s never once taken it.

if anything, he’s protecting you from the rest of his family. putting himself on the line by hiding you instead of just doing the easy thing and killing you, dumping your body somewhere where no one will ever find it and letting the school report you missing in three months when you don’t show up for the first day of class.

you think you know what you’re scared of right now—being stuck in these woods when it’s dark out, alone and trapped, with the possibility that if you run too far, andrew might not be able to find you. 

if he even tried to find you. he might not care now that you broke his trust by running away. he might let you stay stuck out here until the forces of nature get to you, if you’ve gone too far. 

you collapse down against a tree, that thought making your knees weak as you fully process it. and then you wait.

and a few minutes later, you hear the stomps—even they sound angry—getting closer and closer, and you look up to find andrew, like always, staring at you. he looks flushed and though his expression hardly ever changes around you, remaining consistently unphased, you can tell he’s upset with you. 

you two have never needed many words to communicate.

“i’m sorry,” you say quietly, before he can say anything, if he even will. 

you’re not sure it goes from here—you’d thought about the other side of your original plan, running to the nearest road and flagging someone down and whatever else you thought adrenaline would allow you to do. you think your subconscious was trying to protect you from thinking about andrew being angry at you and dragging you back to the cabin by your hair.

weakly, you think it’s what you deserve for running away in the first place.

and andrew wonders why you stopped running, his mind running in circles around the fact that you had your perfect chance to escape and you took it, and you still stopped. you don’t look too hurt—though there’s scratches on your bare feet and ankles from the branches and twigs. you hadn’t even thought to put your shoes on. that’s how badly you wanted to get away from him.

and can he really blame you? he couldn’t have expected you to willingly stay just because you’re gentle when you clean his wound and you two share meals like husband and wife. it’s a fantasy concocted from being in the cabin with you for too long—and he firmly reminds himself of that right now, staring down at you. 

but the way you look at him, watery eyes and an expression like you don’t even understand your own actions, makes resisting the fantasy so hard. he thinks it’s the hardest thing he’s ever done.

he crouches down to be at eye-level with you, your back still perched against the trunk of the tree. you draw your knees in towards your chest and he watches as the fabric of your dress moves with the motion, revealing more bare skin to him.

“why-why’d you do that?”

“i’m sorry, andrew-”

“i haven’t hurt you. i kept my promise.”

“i know, i-i-”

“you’ve been good so far.”

“i’m sorry,” you say again, and with that one, fat tears drip down your cheeks. you are sorry—if only you had a way to convince him of it. or to go back in time and not do any of this, if only to save you both the pain of this conversation.

“why? i want an answer.” firm and final and said in a tone that you had never heard from andrew so far. 

“i…i guess i needed to know if you’d come after me or not.” it comes out as a shuddery breath of words. it’s only partially the truth—but it’s the most you can confess to right now. 

maybe some part of you knew it would happen like this. the truth is that you’re scared of how andrew might feel about you and you’re even more scared of what you feel towards him. 

“of course i would,” he says and you shut your eyes, taking a shaky breath. you feel andrew’s hands on your knees, warm and tense and his grip tight like you might scamper off again. “i would-" he cuts himself off before he can finish the sentence. do anything for you. i would do anything for you.

“d-don’t say that-”

“why not?”

when you open your eyes, andrew’s already looking at you, with an intensity you’ve seen one other night—the time you helped him when he was hurt, the night of the kiss. you don’t have an answer for him.

“can i prove it to you?” andrew’s words make a shiver run through your body. you stare at him, finally not looking away for once, wondering how different things will be after this. 

you think you’re fine with it. and then you feel andrew guiding you—instructing you to lay your body down flat in the grass. his hands are like ropes holding you in place, exactly as he wants you—and when he spreads your legs wide and lowers his head between your thighs, your own head hits the soil with a thud. 

your eyes shut with anticipation, though andrew doesn’t move for what feels like ages. like he’s observing and taking it all in—which is somehow even more shameful. how wet you are from a few words and touches, how ready you are for him. but he’s going to show you and you think all you should do—all you can do, with how dizzy you feel from it—is lay back and take what he gives you.

his words run through your head like a loop—you’ve been good so far. and thinking about those words, when andrew presses the flat of his tongue against your leaking cunt, all the way up to your throbbing clit, you let out a moan closer to a scream, and you can, since no one can hear you for miles around.

he seems incredibly encouraged by that—speeding up his pace, lapping up everything you give him. 

you don’t know when your fingers got wrapped up in andrew’s hair, but they do, and you pull hard when he slips one finger, then two inside of you. you feel it—the knot tensing in your stomach, feeling andrew’s thick fingers spread you open, feeling his tongue against your pussy and lavishing attention on your clit.

you can’t believe you thought your stupid fingers would compare to the real thing—you were wrong, again. nothing you could have thought of could compare to andrew’s hot mouth on you, his huge hand holding you down while the other thrusts fingers in and out of you.

and it’s this realization that tips you over the edge—that even when you tried to run away from this, you’re still back in andrew’s arms, like a star that can’t escape its orbit. 

you finish in andrew’s tight grip, your entire body spasming and shaking as it courses through you—hot and wet and sending lava through your arteries and veins. andrew doesn’t stop until your body is limp and you have to try and push yourself away from him—using what little energy you have left in an unsuccessful attempt to do so.

and then he pulls the skirt of your dress down, picks you up in his arms, and carries you back to the cabin. you feel wetness—your wetness—on his fingers where he holds you and how warm his chest is against your cheek, and you fall asleep somewhere on the walk back. 

when you wake up, you’re in the familiar bed, tucked under the covers. andrew is asleep next to you on top of the sheets.

+

two days later, andrew has to leave for a job. it almost hurts more now that you’ve gotten to experience a slightly different side of things. you think you’ve gotten used to waking up beside him and going to sleep next to him.

but on the other hand, him leaving does have its perks. he hasn’t touched you like that since you were in the woods with him, and as much as you love playing house with andrew, you’re so pent up that you think you could touch yourself all day and it still wouldn’t get rid of it. the burning, sticky ache inside you that wants andrew all the time—that wants him to pin you down and do whatever he’s been harboring thoughts about this whole time. 

memories of his single hand being enough to hold down your entire thrashing body in the woods is enough to make all the hairs on the back of your neck stand up. so you make yourself cum until you can’t anymore (that’s your limit—you don’t think andrew would have a limit for you, though, and you’re sure you’ll find out soon enough) and carry on your little routine and wait for him to come back home to you.

it feels like a certain weight has been lifted from your shoulders, you think, with how easy everything feels now. like you don’t have to fight a battle in your head over every encounter, like you don’t have to justify every emotion. you’re here, and you have andrew, and you’re going to appreciate what you and him have because you know it’s something special.

maybe it’s a little delusional, too, but you’ve been here almost three weeks without seeing another person and you’ve been tepidly awaiting some sort of punishment for running away and it hasn’t come yet. every time you think you know what andrew is going to do, you find yourself completely mistaken.

andrew does come home—and times like this, you really wish you had some way to communicate with him. a satellite phone or a carrier pigeon or something to tell him you’ve gotten your period and there’s nothing in this house that you can substitute like you’ve done with all your other needs. 

he has the usual groceries and a box of brownie mix for dessert because ice cream doesn’t last the drive back here. and then he hands you another bag that you accept with a quizzical look on your face, since normally you two put everything away together. 

and inside is a box of pads and a box of tampons. you look straight up at him and blink.

“how did you know?” 

“know what?”

“that i got my period. you weren’t even here-”

“it’ll be a month soon and you haven’t said anything yet. i just assumed.”

“you assumed?”

“i have a-i had a sister. i know things.”

“oh.” the realization that andrew is a complete stranger startles you for a moment, like it hasn’t in a while. you felt like you knew so much about him from your interactions that you forgot the two of you haven’t ever really talked about his life or your life or anything beyond the four walls of this cabin. “i’m sorry.”

and a little bit later, while you mix the brownie batter and add butter, not oil and milk, not water, you ask andrew questions about his sister and listen as he answers quietly. the way he looks at you after a certain question makes you think no one's ever taken the time to ask him these things before, and that makes your heart hurt in a way you can't really understand.

and then you sit beside him on the couch and read your book aloud while he listens, and you think maybe you don't need to understand everything.

+

andrew thinks you’re getting antsy when you have to be at the cabin alone without him. he wasn’t completely sure, but you’ve started asking when he’s leaving and when he’ll be back almost every time. he thinks maybe he’s just not to used to someone asking, or rather someone wanting him to stay, but now you do, and he doesn’t have a real answer for you.

that’s because the answer is dependent on his brothers and smurf and it changes daily based on if he can avoid their suspicion and the glances they exchange with each other when he says he’ll be busy again. and unsure of how much longer he can keep it up, worried that anything he does might reveal your existence to them, he needs to stay away from you for longer chunks of time, as hard as that thought is for him to swallow.

he doesn’t want to. maybe he never has, now that he has something to come home to, something waiting for him half-asleep on the couch and leaving plates of dinner in the oven and something that takes him by the hand and brings him to the bedroom to sleep next to each other.

the solution comes to him when lena is telling him about a girl at school who got a kitten for her birthday, and if he’d help her convince baz to let her get one too. 

he doesn’t know how to explain that baz is never going to agree to that, when he goes to the shelter, he thinks that if he ever gets to introduce you to lena, she can play with the one he’s about to get you. 

the worker at the shelter shows him the kittens, playful and hyperactive and running around in their pen. the woman there starts explaining what each of the little kittens are like, identifying them by their collars, but he doesn’t hear half of it. 

there’s a little orange one that’s quiet, tucked away and not as energetic as the others. he thinks that’d be perfect for you—to have a calm kitten dozing off in your lap while you read or follow you around the kitchen. and when he picks it up, it barely takes up the size of his hand. yes, he thinks, this is exactly what you need. 

the worker has him fill out papers and tells him the different things he needs to buy—though he knows some of it already—and asks him if the little kitten is for him. 

“no. no she's for my girl-my girlfriend.” she harps on about how sweet that is and that he’s being a great boyfriend, and andrew swallows uncomfortably.

it didn’t feel like a lie.

when he comes home that day, he finds you, like always, waiting for him. he thinks stupidly that he should have gotten a basket or a ribbon or something, to make the kitten feel more like a gift for you, but it slipped his mind while he was trying to fight off intrusive thoughts about your reaction. 

and it’s everything he thought it would be. 

as soon as you hear the quiet mewing, you stand up, the blanket that always covers your legs falling to the ground.

you rush over to him, your body pressed close against him and fingers brushing as you pet the nape of the kitten’s neck. 

“oh my god. oh my god-” he’s never heard you sound so excited—and your tone is nearly intoxicating for him. he wonders what else he can do to get you to stay this happy forever.

“she's for you.”

“oh my god. andrew. she's so cute. hi,” you coo at her in a voice that only gets more excited when he helps the kitten into your arms. and then you beam your bright smile up at andrew and he momentarily gets all the wind knocked from his lungs. “what should we name her?” 

we. like this cat is both of yours—yours and his. it’s the things like that—the ways you subconsciously reveal that you think of him as yours, that everything you two is together. that this kitten is for the both of you. and andrew thinks if this is how you’d react to everything, there’s nothing he could ever deny you. 

he watches you play with the kitten for a while before he has to leave—not entirely sure how to break it to you that he’ll be gone for longer than usual this time. maybe you’ll stay so occupied you won’t notice it. you use one of the toys he brought, a little rod with a toy fish on a string, and drag it across the floor while the kitten chases it. and then you accumulate enough cuteness aggression that you bring her in for a hug and laugh while she curls up against you.

(and andrew, who thinks he’s never had a thought like this before, wonders briefly what you’d look like with a baby in your arms.)

you’re sad when he says that he has to leave but at the very least, he knows you’ll be occupied. he thinks he did the right thing, and then he knows he did the right thing, when you scoop up the kitten and bring her to the door to say goodbye to andrew with you. then you turn your head to give andrew a kiss on his cheek and thank him again and he drives to oceanside wondering why he didn’t think of this sooner.

you wrangle the kitten for the better part of two days before andrew comes back. 

he’d told you it would take longer but every passing minute that he’s not home with you or driving towards you makes him antsy. makes his skin hum and vibrate with anticipation of when he can leave. by now, the others must have noticed that something’s going on, though if they have, no one says anything. he doesn’t know if it’s from a lack of concern or out of fear for his answer, but either way, he’s glad they haven’t. 

they don’t need to know about you. that’s why all of this has felt so perfect to andrew so far—because his family isn’t around to taint it and ruin it. to scare you off or hurt you and all the other things that would happen if they realized you were still alive.

and though you and him don’t talk about much, there’s an understanding between the two of you, one that’s only been strengthened since the day when you had run away and stopped so he could find you. that maybe, as twisted as all of this was, it was meant to happen. that you two were meant to find each other. 

it’s a heavy thought for the drive back to the cabin. it weighs over him like a storm cloud—the battle of trying to recognize if he’d done the right thing by bringing you here or not. maybe he should have let you go the day after smurf and his brothers had stopped bringing you up, once they thought you were dealt with.

but when he opens the door to the cabin, you’re curled up with the cat, asleep on the couch just like he had envisioned. what’s more is the overwhelming notion of the fact that you had fallen asleep there waiting for him, like you always do. 

you feel you’ve almost been trained to wake up to the sound of the door closing. when you open your eyes, still heavy with sleep, andrew’s perched on the couch next to you, petting the kitten lying to you.

“i didn’t mean to wake you up,” he says quietly. you sigh, a surprisingly sweet noise that comes to him like a melody. 

“that’s okay,” you sit up, yawning and stretching. “i don’t want to sleep if you’re here.”

and he doesn’t know what to do when you say things like that—because really, what is he supposed to say? your words have an almost otherworldly effect on him when he processes what they mean.

that you want to wake up when he comes back home. that you don’t want to miss a moment of time with him. that you want him there with you.

the last one hits him the hardest.

andrew stares in silence while you stretch your arms and then bring the kitten back into your hands, cuddling against her and nuzzling your face against hers. the kitten had looked comically small in his palm but perfectly at home in yours. 

“did you pick a name?”

“maybe. i wasn’t sure what you’d like,” you say, meeting his eyes for longer than you usually do—something you’ve been working on. the two of you stay like that for a while, glancing between yourselves and the kitten mewling and traipsing around the space between you and andrew.

“you should pick. she’s for you.” you smile at andrew when he says that, and for some reason, all of this just feels so much more domestic than it ever has before. his hand turns into a fist at his side because it is overwhelming—incredibly so. he wants to lay down next to you and watch you play with the kitten and tell him every thought in your head and fall asleep to the sound of you talking.

but he can’t do any of that, and he can’t tell you, either. so he attempts a small smile back at you and you tell him you think you like the name wren. 

“it was in one of the books,” you say, though you’re lying through your teeth. 

“wren?”

“what? what’s wrong with it?” “n-nothing. i just thought… i don’t know. it’s not really a cat name, is it?”

“what? you want me to call her mrs. whiskers?” 

he laughs when you say that, and so you laugh too. surprisingly calm, and the rest of the world forgotten for a few minutes. andrew doesn’t understand such a human name for the kitten, but it’s yours. he think he’d let you do whatever you want if you keep laughing and smiling with him.

you get up to make lunch, and andrew and wren both follow you into the kitchen, and the hours of the day pass by quickly when andrew’s there with you. since you learned about his sister, you like to ask him questions, and though he was hesitant at first—you’re not entirely sure why—he’s begun asking you questions too, about when you’d become a school nurse and if you liked it and the book you’re reading this week. 

andrew avoids personal questions. the fear of reminding you of the life you left behind, or snapping you back to the reality of how you’re stuck here with him frightens him too much to ask. but you ask him questions—lots of them, all about his life and his family and how long they’ve been doing these jobs. 

you get sad, he can tell since you’re bad at hiding your emotion and they paint over your face immediately, when he tells you about how long he’s been doing this. about stolen gas station wallets and the people smurf always had over and how every day was about him trying to protect his siblings. 

you get sad even to the point of tears, something he can’t understand. you don’t know him enough to cry over him, do you? or is this just what you’re like—crying over your kidnapper’s childhood stories, curling up next to andrew on the couch with the kitten between you two, holding his hand and pleading with him to stay the night. 

is this what you’re like? or is this what he’s made you into?

you fall asleep somewhere between the answer to another question you’ve asked him and the cat’s soft snores next to you. it’s easier once you’re asleep—to gaze over you and not have to hold back the smile that takes over him. you’re so trusting it almost frustrates him. 

he picks you up gently, carrying you back to the bedroom. the cat wakes up from the movement and meows at him, but all she does is follow andrew as he carries you and jump onto the bed when he sets you down. while unfolding the blanket to cover you, a piece of paper falls out and lands on the ground near his feet.

you and wren are both sound asleep now. he should go back to the living room—sleep there or leave, but the idea of you waking up alone makes him feel miserable inside. or rather, another day of waking up without you. 

he opens the paper—there’s names written in pen all over. at the top is andrew in your pretty handwriting, with different letters crossed out. and then underneath are all different names using the same couple of letters. 

warden 

wander 

dawn with a maybe??? 

rand

red

then raw, crossed out several times and a big no written next to it. and then finally, wren, circled and with several exclamations following it.

oh. so that’s why you named the kitten wren. he stares at you asleep next to her, having brought an arm across her, even in your sleep, like you were trying to keep her close to you. 

oh. 

wren—using the letters of his name. emotions surge through andrew like they haven’t in a long time. the sad, pathetic yearning turning into something he doesn’t think he’s felt before—the urge to make you happy because you make him so happy, without even trying to. 

and though he knows he should get in the car and drive back to oceanside before anyone can bother asking where he is, the urge to stay with you is stronger than the rational logic of leaving. so, he gets into bed next to you and wren. 

andrew doesn’t sleep much, though it’s hard to fight sleep when he can hear your gentle breathing. and it’s really, really hard to fight sleep when your arm makes its way across his chest, the warmth burning through his shirt.

he does fall asleep—maybe the best he’s slept in years. and when he wakes up to the sunlight, you’re curled up against his side, the cat somewhere at your feet, holding onto him like you’re worried he’ll leave. 

thoughts plague him about how you don’t even know if he’s really there, that sometimes he leaves when you’re asleep and you wake up alone more often than you wake up to him. you’ve been knocked out since last night, at least he thinks, because if you had gotten up he would have noticed.

but andrew watches you hold onto his arm, your face smushed against his chest as you take sleepy breaths and snore softly, legs tangled together, and he has to think it’s happening for a reason.

groggily, he wonders if you’ve been sent just to test his willpower. memories flood him quickly—when you had touched yourself after he kissed you, what he’d done to you out in the woods after he’d caught you (or rather, caught up to you—because you had stopped. you had waited for him.) 

he thinks he just ignores his morning wood on most days but it’s especially hard when your soft skin is pressed against him and he can see miles of it exposed since you kicked away the covers. the little noises you make as you get comfortable and stay nestled against him don’t help either—and just when he questions what exactly you might be dreaming about, his phone goes off.

fuck. stupid fucking phone—he needs to make it not so loud or destroy the thing entirely. he reaches over to the night stand to grab it but the damage is already done, your eyes jump open from the terrible alarm and you take about half a second to realize how close you are to andrew. you meet his eyes and then he answers his phone and you unpeel yourself from his side, if a bit begrudgingly. 

andrew stares at you while you stare at wren, hoping she stays quiet so the person on the other line can’t hear her. you take heavy breaths and andrew notices that you look flushed and warm, and you keep moving around, changing your position as if you can’t get comfortable. squirming, even.

which leads him back to his original question—what the hell were you dreaming about? he gets lost in the possible answers and makes baz repeat himself three times before he answers. in an attempt to get him to hang up, andrew agrees with whatever he says and you sit patiently, taking wren into your arms so she doesn’t make any noises for attention. she still mews quietly a few times and you pick her up, taking her into the living room as carefully as you can

“is that a cat? where are you?” baz asks on the other line and andrew hangs up without saying goodbye.

he walks into the living room and you stand up once you see him, leaving wren on the couch.

“i’m so sorry. i didn’t think she’d-” “that’s okay. i-i have to go.” 

you sigh and your shoulders drop, your hopeful expression changing into one of disappointment before his very eyes. maybe he’s never hated anything as much as how you’re looking at him right now.

“already?” the words make andrew’s knees feel weak.

“i don’t have a choice. i…” he trails off, wondering how to finish the sentence, how to articulate the thought.

how to sum up the fact that he would stay here, with you, all day if he could. that watching you cook and curl up in the sun and play with the kitten that you refer to as ours is enough to sustain him for the rest of his life. that whenever the day comes that you get to leave this place, he will never forget about you—not your sweet smile or your sincere expressions or how earnestly you look at him when you don’t want him to go. 

but he doesn’t know how to tell you any of that. 

“i’m sorry,” he finishes quietly. and like always, you smile at him.

“it’s okay. we’ll just miss you.” you turn to look at wren and then look back, and somehow, though you must think this every single time, andrew’s stare feels different than usual.

like there’s so much swimming around in his mind that he’s not telling you. he doesn’t say it back, that he’ll miss you both too. instead he walks up closer to you, and you hold in a breath, unsure of what’s coming, before he leans in and gives you a kiss on the forehead. you feel every muscle in your body relax when his lips press to your skin, eyes fluttering shut.

he murmurs something that sounds suspiciously like be good, and then you nod in response quickly.

and then he’s gone again. 

you crawl back into bed, the motivation to make breakfast or do much of anything long gone.

not to mention that one of his stupid brothers—you know their names but you didn’t know which one had called, though it was probably baz since he always interrupted everything—had woken you up from the best dream you’d had since you’d been stuck here. your thighs feel sticky and your entire body squirms with the realization that if you had stayed dreaming any longer, you probably would have started rubbing yourself against andrew in your sleep.

and as embarrassing as that thought it is, it’s equally intoxicating to wonder what he would have done about it.

in the dream you had been riding his thigh—your own thighs splayed out wide against him, and in the dream andrew had been watching you, like he always does. except this time you know it was different, like you could see the lust behind the hazel, like he was using all of his self control to not do more. 

would the real andrew do the same? after so many close calls and whatever the hell that was in the woods and the two of you being so close together in the same bed yet so incredibly far? you don’t know the answer, though you think you’re about ready to find out. 

it’s not very fair—he kisses your head like he’s your husband or something, and then leaves you pent up and yearning for more like he’s nothing but your captor. he hasn’t even touched you in a way that could be deemed as inappropriate since the woods and you’re left to believe that maybe he just doesn’t want to cross that line.

you don’t know andrew’s rules when it comes to you, though it seems like he’ll break them if he’s pushed to it.

that’s what you’re thinking when you fold a pillow—the one andrew slept on—in half and mount it as if it could possibly compare to your dream and what andrew’s thigh or arm might feel like in reality. but you still try, lifting up your (his) shirt and letting your hips move against the cold pillow, grabbing your tits and teasing your nipples, wondering if this is what andrew would do. you think he would get sick of the teasing and finally bend you over, but then you think he wouldn’t do that until you’ve finished already. he’s too generous for that.

and though the thought of andrew and his generosity with you, in bed, one day, is enough to normally tip you over the edge, something inside of you just won’t let you finish. you hump the pillow for what seems like ages, but you don’t get any closer to finishing.

maybe it’s just because your body knows what it feels like when andrew’s the one making you cum, and it won’t settle for your pathetic excuse of an orgasm anymore.

so with burning, aching thighs and an entirely unsatisfied feeling in your chest, you collapse against the bed and sigh. when you look over on andrew’s side of the bed, you just get a sense of longing that fills your entire body.

wren cries out and you see her sitting in the doorway, eyes focused on you, her own way of asking for your attention.

“okay, okay, i’m coming,” you say, before getting up. you walk over and pick her up and she doesn’t stop staring or blink once. “just like your dad, huh?”

+

on the drive back to you on the following day, andrew thinks long and hard about what baz said to him.

it started as an innocent conversation—baz brought up the cat again, saying how lena’s been asking for one and he wants to make sure andrew’s not gonna surprise her with it. with a blank stare, andrew told him that he must be imagining things because he wasn’t near a cat.

then the conversation had shifted—about his absences and how he’s been gone all the time and no one’s seen him at smurf’s or his place or anywhere else. 

baz’s words linger in his head on the drive. where’ve you been going, man? is this about that girl? we’re sorry you had to take care of it but we didn’t have any options, pope. is that what this is about? 

it’s as if it’s impossible for them to understand that everything in his life is about you now—centered around you. he finally made a decision for himself, for once, not just blindly following along with whatever smurf wanted. 

it’s so easy for the rest of them to think that whatever’s wrong with him is about you—when they don’t even know you. not like he does—not in the way that andrew’s gotten to know you over the last weeks. 

your gentleness, even to your kidnapper. your sweet smiles that keep him going through each day. how memories of his hours with you stay in his head for long after he drives away from the cabin. 

that for the time he stays there with you, there’s nothing wrong with him, there’s nothing to fix, nothing broken that you haven’t already seen. he’s just andrew to you—nothing more. you say his name without burdens or expectations. you want him to stay longer. you run away and then sit down and wait for him to find you. he gives you a cat as a goddamn distraction and you name the thing after him and dote on it.

but for everything you do for him, and the way you make him feel, he can’t keep you here. maybe he knew all along this was a temporary thing, that it was just to hide you away until his family well and truly believed that you were dealt with and taken care of. that you were never meant to stay with him, to be his. the idea now seems ridiculous—a sweet girl like you, so compliant even when he’s been holding you hostage.

but even you had to give into your instinct, the one that told you to flee when you saw the open door. how can he blame you? that should have been your natural reaction from the first hour you’ve been in the cabin. 

briefly, he thinks he can’t blame you for any of it. the fault is all his—and he’ll start rectifying it now. if baz was wondering about his absences and if it has anything to do with you, then smurf must be too. before long, all of them would be. and then it wouldn’t take long to figure out he’s kept you hidden this whole time, and then they’ll really hurt you, and he can’t have that.

he pulls onto the dirt road that leads to the cabin and drives down it slowly, like he knows whatever you two had has to come to an end today. 

andrew rests his head against the steering wheel, hand a little shaky.

it’s for you, he reminds himself. he can do it because it’s for you, for your safety, for your life. there’s no future for you cooped up here all alone while he abandons you every other day. just a deplorable fantasy from a man who has always been alone about to be alone again. 

you’ll be happier once you’ve left this place—he’ll take you to your apartment and give you cash so you can leave and start over wherever you’d like. that’s the plan right now—get you home to get your belongings, and figure out what you’ll tell your job and how to get you as far away from oceanside as he can. 

it means in a few hours, he’ll be telling you goodbye for the last time.

he opens the door, and like always, you’re waiting for him. wren follows you around as you make your way to the door to greet him, beaming up at him like you have been. you linger as though you want to do something else—maybe you want to kiss him, or pull him into a hug, but you don’t. 

you stare up at him while he stares at you, until you finally speak up.

“well, i made lunch. let me go get it ready for you,” but when you turn, he grabs onto your arm. you spin back to face him again with a confused expression. “andrew?”

“i-i have to get you out of here.”

“andrew?” you question again, voice a little shaky. “what do you mean?”

“my family. they’re…noticing. i’m gone all the time and no one-no one’s reported you missing. i need to get you out of town. maybe another state.”

“andrew-”

“i’ll drive you back to your apartment. you-you can take whatever you need from there. and here too, uh, wren’s stuff,” he looks around, trying to see what else you had even brought here. and then he realizes it was never the things, it was you, that always made this place feel like home. your presence and the blanket that told him you were reading on the couch and the pulled curtains and the smell of something you baked in the air. “i can get you new papers, if you want. you can go wherever. i can figure out how to get you there, but-”

“you’re not coming with me, are you?” the way you say it, the expression on your face, it’s enough to make whatever resolve is still standing in him crumble.

“i can’t. it-it’s for your own safety. you have to get away from here. if i stay you’ll just get hurt-”

“that’s not true,” you plead, realizing sadly that this is the most you and andrew have spoken to each other about something that didn't start as a question. your conversations have never needed so many words. “you kept me safe all this time-”

“i can’t, anymore. if they find out that you’re here-”

“they won’t,” you say, getting closer and bringing your hands to his chest, pressing them flat against him like you have to remind yourself he’s still there. you keep looking at him, not breaking the eye contact like you always do, though it feels like andrew’s gaze is burning holes through you. 

“they will. they always do. they’ll hurt you.”

“no, andrew, please-”

“we need to go. we have to get the things you need and leave-” andrew tries to move away from your grip, but you follow him, hands on his shoulders, standing in front of him again to block him from doing anything else. “i-i don’t understand. why? why don’t you want to leave? this isn’t a life. i-i’m keeping you from your life.”

“you’re not keeping me from anything. i-i like being here with you-”

“no, no, you don’t. that’s not right. i-i should have never brought you here.”

“you saved my life, andrew,” you say softly, blinking up at him with teary eyes. you hadn’t realized when you’d started crying.

“i’m gonna get you killed if i-”

without thinking anymore about it, realizing that andrew might very well be as serious as you’ve ever seen him, you lean in to bring your lips to his. you kiss andrew with all the emotions floating around your brain—hurt and fear and want and need all merging into one. 

your arms wrap around his neck and you hold him in the kiss as best as you can, feeling his grip tighten around your waist as you two don’t let go of each other. andrew kisses you with a fury, like he’s just realizing what’s been waiting for him all this time. 

your back ends up pushed against a wall gently—and even then, andrew keeps his hands on your waist and uses them as a barrier against the surface so you don’t get hurt. 

with swollen, aching lips and weak knees and feeling his tongue prod into your mouth, you think you’d be stupid to ever walk away from this. 

when you pull away to breathe, andrew’s mouth goes to your neck, littering kisses up the column until he gets to your jawline. you finish your sentence in a broken daze, the thought half forgotten already-

“you would never let me get hurt,” you whisper, taking his face into your hands and forcing the two of you to stare at each other. he takes it in—your wet eyelashes and puffy lips and how you look with desire spelled all across your face—because of him.

you lean in for another kiss, only pulling away to keep telling him everything he’s done for you. you feel it against your thigh—his hardness pressing into you, proof that he wants you, the proof you’ve been wanting all along.

(though, you think stupidly, dazed by andrew’s hot touch and how tightly he holds you, going against everything he’s been telling you since he came back home to you—a home that you are not, in any way, ready to give up or hand back without at least something of a fight—you can figure out how to convince him.)

and then andrew moans against your lips and you forget everything you’ve been thinking. you pull at his shirt, wanting it off, eager and with every limb shaking from anticipation. you’ve wanted this for so long you can’t even remember to remind yourself it’s andrew—the man who took you and brought you here, offering to set you free, and you’re trying to convince him not to, like a puppy who doesn’t want to go back to the shelter.

because isn’t that what all of this is, in the end? you can try to fight it as much as you want, but until you met andrew, until you became something that belonged to him, someone that he gets to come home to every day and someone that asks you questions and listens to the answers and does things for no other reason than he thought it would make you happy, what really were you?

you were alone, and you didn’t have anybody. and now you have andrew, and you think it’s worth fighting for.

you’d been joking to yourself about stockholm syndrome lite, but you’re pretty convinced you’ve got the deluxe version now. though when andrew picks you up, your legs wrapping around his automatically, feeling his hardness press against your wet, clothed cunt, it’s easy to forget about everything else.

andrew brings you into the bedroom and lays you down. you stare at him while you take heavy breaths and try to not pass out from sheer excitement that the thing you’ve been fantasizing about is finally happening. it seems silly, but you want to remember this forever. andrew pulls his shirt off, hovering over you, and you take a hand and press it against his bare skin, traveling up his chest and to his arms and then his forearms. 

your fingertips dig in before running over the veins you’re seeing the full length of for the first time, and above you, andrew closes his eyes and shudders at your touch.

you bookmark it for later—that he enjoys the feeling of his veins being traced, and focus instead on andrew, meeting his eyes again.

he stares at you differently this time—hungry, like all the words you’ve been saying are enough to convince him, finally, that this is a good idea. that this is right. 

you’re half a housewife already, anyways. this is the least you deserve, though you stay quiet, letting andrew decide what he wants to do to you. 

he leans in for another kiss, sweet and gentle, and your body melts into the bed. his hands roam your body, sliding the fabric of your dress up until he can pull it off of you. you lift your arms and head so he can do it easily—not even remotely concerned that you’re naked in front of him now. your hands go to his belt, but he puts his own over yours, taking over. he undoes his belt and pulls it out of the loops, while you stare at him from your position, chewing on your lip and seeing how andrew’s eyes focus on your heaving chest.

and then, unsure if you have even a moment’s more of patience in you, you pull andrew into another kiss and wrap your arms around his neck and legs around his waist to keep him there.

“inside, please, andrew, inside,” you whine like a demanding, spoiled child, though you haven’t asked andrew for anything all this time. you think he just brings it out in you. 

he murmurs something against your neck while he presses hot, open-mouthed kisses there, something like be patient. 

when you feel his fingers brush over your bare, leaking cunt, your entire body tenses up before melting back into the bed. one rough finger rubs against your clit and you seize up, squealing because you haven’t felt his hands on you in what feels like forever. he continues the motion, rubbing circles while you feel yourself getting wetter and wetter, and then just when you’ve lost all sense of what words mean, he pushes a huge finger inside of you. 

“andrew, yes, yes, yes,” you moan, realizing just like in the woods, that you don’t have to be quiet here. you cry out his name when he pushes another one in, plunging the pair in and out of you.

“have to get you ready,” he says, focused like he’s on a mission, not getting strayed by your incessant begging to just put it inside already. he scissors his fingers and keeps rubbing your clit with his thumb and it feels so good that you almost don’t want to give in—you want to stay like this forever, as long as he’ll let you. 

that it feels so good, fulfilling every fantasy you’ve had about him—that he’s a giver and he’s generous and he wouldn’t dream about cumming until you have first. that’s just your andrew, you guess.

when he leans in close to your ear and whispers it to you—can you be good for me? can you cum for me?—that’s when your orgasm hits you without any control behind it. you couldn’t stop it even if you wanted—the white-hot feeling washing over you from head to toe, your cunt squeezing around his fingers. you’re so wet that you must have left a puddle on the sheets, entire body spasming and shaking until andrew slows down his motions. 

he pulls out his fingers and your eyes flutter shut, entire body exhausted—and he hasn’t even fucked you yet. when you blink them open, feeling andrew’s weight on top of you, you catch the ending glimpses of it—him licking your juices from his fingers, enjoying it. like he’s missed the taste of you.

your eyes flutter shut again quickly. 

you pant out words that don’t really make sense—just a request, in as few words as you can manage. inside. andrew. please. 

and he’s nothing if not generous to you. he always listens. you hear andrew’s deep breaths as he positions himself on top of you, taking your legs onto his shoulder as if it’s nothing for him to fold you however he wants. the thought makes you more and more lightheaded.

you bring your hands to his arms to hold on, feeling them pulse under your touch. you think it’ll be impossible to keep you away from him, now that you’re getting a taste of everything you’ve been dreaming about. momentarily, as you feel andrew’s thick head line up with your wet entrance, you think that you’ll never let him leave you. that you don't want him to leave, ever. and if this is how you have to convince him to stay, you’ll do so happily.

and then andrew runs his tip over your cunt, bumping it against your clit and making your body spasm while he collects your wetness, and you forget what you were thinking again. 

he’s so big—every part of him is big, so you should have seen it coming, but it still takes you by surprise. the sheer thickness prodding against your hole makes you dig your fingers into his arm, thinking later that you’ll have to apologize for the marks you’re leaving on him. 

andrew uses one hand to guide himself inside, and leans in to kiss you while he does so. and when he pushes inside, sheathing himself fully, resting there while he lets you adjust, you cry out against his lips.

“i know. i know,” he breathes against your mouth, pulling out slightly and making you squeal again. “just relax. you’re-you’re taking it.”

you think it’s meant to reassure you, to remind you that you’re doing good, but it comes out in the form of a groan, like andrew’s realizing just how tight and pent up you really are. he tells you the words like there’s no choice in the matter—that you’re taking all of him whether you can handle it or not.

the thought is enough to make your head thud against the pillow and your eyes roll all the way back. 

“please, andrew,” you whine, leaning in for another kiss. “please-”

not entirely sure what you’re begging for, he complies, like always. he pulls out slowly, and then slams back inside of you, almost as if he can’t control himself.

and really, he can’t. he’s cum to you so many times, spilled over his hand in the truck and in the shower, imagining this very moment. he’ll be surprised if he lasts any longer, the urge to fill you up getting stronger and stronger with each passing minute. 

he keeps going—picking up a brutal pace that brings you further and further away from being level-headed with each thrust. 

you blink open your wet eyes, unsure of when you’d closed them or when you’d started crying, staring at your ankles in the air before focusing on andrew. he’s always been handsome but seeing him like this—flushed and sweaty, curls damp against his forehead, his expression twisted up in pleasure—and the realization that for once, you’re making him feel good is almost enough to tip you over the edge.

you want to look into his eyes, almost laughing internally at how much you’ve changed from not even being able to hold eye contact for more than a few seconds to asking for it while you’re stuffed full of him, but he’s looking somewhere else. 

his eyes are locked on your cunt—where the two of you meet and where you’re swallowing him inside like you were made for him.

maybe, andrew thinks in a lust-blown haze, maybe you were. 

he keeps battering inside of you, hitting a spot somewhere deep inside that you’re not entirely sure had existed. the second orgasm washes over you and leaves you completely feeble—muscles screaming at you as the lightning courses through every nerve. your cunt squeezes and tightens around him, and he groans with pleasure, a noise you want to hold onto forever.

but andrew keeps you in place, even when your eyes shut again. maybe you had passed out, though the thought isn’t exactly surprising. when you open your eyes again, andrew is still going, each grunt getting louder and louder. your fluttering cunt pushes him closer to the edge, and you lock your legs around him. 

when andrew looks at you, you meet his eyes.

“please, andrew, i want it inside,” you plead, and he knows he’s fucked—that he’s never been able to say no to you and he can’t start now. 

inside, it is. the thoughts plague him as his hips stutter—that this could very well be the moment he’s getting you pregnant. the fact that you’re begging for it, and that there’s no knowing how long you’ve wanted this.have you imagined it too? wanting andrew so badly—wanting a family with him, a life with him? half a housewife, half a captive. you’re so much more now, though, something he can’t put words to. 

his. all he needs to know is that you’re his. 

“please,” you cry again, leaning up for a kiss. andrew presses his lips against yours while the pace slows down and his moans get louder. “keep me forever, andrew.”

it’s all he can take—burying his head into your neck while he groans against your skin, giving you every ounce he has. the warmth of his cum fills you up until you can feel it leaking onto the sheets, making a mess of your thighs when andrew finally pulls out. 

he lays next to you, catching his breath and hoping you can catch yours too. 

the reality of everything—his family back home and if they figure out that you’re still alive and what’ll happen if they find out he lied rushes through him, though he wishes he could fight it off to enjoy this for a moment longer.

you’re warm and flushed against him, bringing your head to his chest and leaning there. you two stay silent, though it’s not unusual. 

outside of the doors of this cabin, the real world, with questions that he doesn’t have answers to, awaits. but inside is his own personal paradise, complete with you—fucked out and sleepy and with nothing to worry about if he can help it. you’ve been right all along—he’s kept you safe so far, and there’s nothing and no one that can stop him from taking care of you and protecting you. how a husband protects his wife, he thinks.

“andrew?” you ask quietly, throat sore and entire body exhausted. he looks at you, pressing another kiss to your forehead. 

“yes?”

“does this mean you’ll keep me?”

♡ thanks for reading!

[lovelivision]

JEALOUSY! JEALOUSY!

pairing: 【𝐬𝐞𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐞】 fushiguro toji/reader, geto suguru/reader, gojo satoru/reader, kamo choso/reader

wc: 4.7k

summary: your boyfriend has a hard time controlling his jealousy, but instead of communicating about it, he decides to take his frustrations out in a less than constructive manner...

warnings: 18+ only, smut, pwp, established relationship, jealousy, dirty talk, swearing, fingering, p in v sex, creampie, biting, hickeys, cunnilingus, (minor) overstimulation, afab! reader, no pronouns used but reader is referred to as 'girlfriend' in Gojo's part, no use of y/n !!

MDNI | SMUT UNDER CUT

𝑭𝑼𝑺𝑯𝑰𝑮𝑼𝑹𝑶 𝑻𝑶𝑱𝑰 ⭐︎

When you got home, Toji had a sour look on his face, one that you were pretty certain you knew the exact reason for. You had gone out with an old friend of yours, one you hadn’t seen in what felt like forever. It wasn’t your fault he just so happened to be a guy and that Toji had a vicious jealousy streak.

Before you had left, Toji was sulking around the house, mumbling about how you were getting all dressed up for another man. You could only roll your eyes and tell him to stop acting like a child. In all honesty, it was a miracle you made it out the front door when he was in such a mood. Not putting it past him to keep you trapped in the house, or at the very least, make you late.

Now, he’s stood in front of you, as soon as you’re through the front door, that annoyed expression plastered all over his face. Pursing your lips, you wait for him to speak, since he so clearly has something he wants to say.

His eyebrow twitches slightly, “Did you have fun?”

That’s a loaded question if you’ve ever heard one. Carefully, you reply, “I did.”

“So much fun that you couldn’t message me back?” He pulls his head back, looking down at you from above.

You can’t help but feel somewhat amused, “Toji… I replied to every message you sent.”

He squints at you, “No–”

“–Yes,” you cut him off, “I replied to every message but the last one because I was driving.”

He folds his arms and grunts, apparently done giving verbal responses.

It’s kind of cute, you didn’t think he’d be the type to pout like this. This isn’t the first time he’s been jealous, but it is the first time it’s been this bad, he seems like he doesn’t really know how to handle it.

“Toji,” his eyes lock on yours when you call his name softly, “You don’t have any reason to be jealous,” you smile at him, trying to offer comfort.

He snaps, “I never said I was jealous.”

Looking up at him through your lashes, you mumble out, “You didn’t really have to…”

His gaze sharpens on you, not liking your assumptions. He’s not jealous, not of any man, he’s the one who gets your affections, he’s the one who gets to touch you at the end of the day, he’s the one who hears all your sweet little moans when he’s fucking you so hard and fast you can barely breathe…

“Toji?” You wave your hand in front of his face, trying to regain his attention.

He’s quick to catch your wrist and stop your movements, tugging you to him closely, “You know what, maybe I am jealous…” Smiling evilly down at you as he asks, “…What are you gonna do to fix it?”

“It seems more like a you problem, no?” He’s so warm, so large, you want him to kiss you, he’s close enough to.

He breathes out a laugh at your words, amused and a little annoyed, “I think since you’re the reason I feel this way, you should take responsibility for fixing it.”

“Fine,” you mutter, reaching to his face with your free hand. Your touch gentle on him, leaning up to press your lips to his softly. The kiss only a momentary peck, meant to be sweet, make him feel better.

He moves his lips to kiss you back but you’re parting from him before he can manage to kiss you properly. He huffs, “Don’t think it worked… might need to try again.”

A light smile graces your features, but you lean in and kiss him again, the same as before. Fleeting, not giving him the chance to reciprocate in the way he so clearly wants to.

He groans when you pull back again, both his hands moving to grab your face and hold you still. His lips land on yours harshly, taking the breath out of your lungs. His kiss hot and heavy, tongue licking into your mouth.

Hands angling you so he can kiss you deeply, swallowing down your moans with his own grunts. It’s messy and desperate, his lips all too eager to drive the pair of you crazy like this, in the threshold of your shared home.

Toji’s hands travel down your body, pulling you to him, parting only to murmur, “Jump.”

You do as he says, wrapping your legs around his waist, his large hands holding underneath your thighs. He carries you blindly to your room, his head buried in your neck, licking and biting at your skin. Leaving behind marks that will surely be difficult to cover tomorrow.

You make a shocked noise when he suddenly drops you onto the bed, bouncing slightly with the force of it. Toji pulls his shirt up and over his body, you’re eyeing the way his torso stretches, mesmerised by him. Your thighs clench together slightly at the display, getting worked up.

Dropping the shirt onto the floor before looking at you, “Undress.” When you don’t move immediately, he clarifies, “Now.”

Putting on a determined face, you light-heartedly salute at him, “Yessir!”

You’re both undressed, only you’re sat in your panties looking up at him, waiting patiently for what he has planned. When you move to tug down your underwear, he stops you, “Leave ‘em on.”

You get comfortable on the bed and he crawls over top of you, leaning on his knees, eyeing you from above. Appreciating the view of you squirming below him, your thighs rubbing together, all worked up from his kisses.

Looking at you like this almost has him forgetting what had him so worked up in the first place, almost.

Leaning down, his mouth hovers over yours, “I’m gonna fuck you in your lil’ panties, make a real mess out of ‘em.”

Your heart stutters in your chest, you don’t really know how to answer him other than with a quick nod, “…Okay.”

He smiles big at your reaction, “Such a good little listener when you’re about to get fucked but never any other time, huh?”

“That’s–”

Objection cut short when he starts playing with your panties, pulling them to the side so he can see just how wet you are for him. Whistling low at how much your pussy has gushed for him, thumb rubbing up and down your slit. Collecting your juices and using it to rub quick circles into your clit.

“Messy thing, drooling over the thought of my cock,” his tone completely smug.

Your hips twitch, “Toji, don’t be mean…”

“You’re the mean one,” he moves, his cock now swiping though your folds, spreading your mess all over the length of him, “Leaving me here all alone while you’re out with another man.”

“It wasn’t like that, and you know it,” your words are less spoken and more moaned at him.

“Oh?” he pauses his movements and your hips twitch, trying to regain the lost friction, “Getting real mouthy with me.”

You shake your head ‘no’ at him and he tuts in disapproval.

“Please keep moving,” you try to grind up into him, needing him to move.

His hand pushes your hips down, the expression he’s wearing bright with bad intentions, “Don’t be greedy.”

Maybe you shouldn’t have taken him feeling jealous so lightly, he’s clearly planning on torturing you all night over this…

𝑮𝑬𝑻𝑶 𝑺𝑼𝑮𝑼𝑹𝑼 ⭐︎

You’re doing your hair in the bathroom mirror when Geto walks in behind you, dark look on his face as he watches you. His foul mood had only come about when you told him you were going out with some friends.

He’s being ridiculous, they’re just some work colleagues but because you work in a place that has hired mostly men, he’s feeling some type of way about it. You sympathise, truly, but his pouting and brooding isn’t going to stop you from going out and making connections within your field.

“Stop looking at me like that,” you lock eyes with his in the mirror and frown, growing tired of his attitude.

He looks away from you, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

You call his name, “Geto,” he looks back at you, “You’re being ridiculous.”

His scowl deepens, not appreciating your bluntness. He knows he’s being ridiculous; doesn’t mean he’s going to stop all of a sudden. “It’s your fault.”

You guffaw at him, “Excuse me?”

He doesn’t elaborate, “I don’t like that you’re going out with a bunch of men…”

Trying to offer some comfort, you say, “…It’s not all men.”

“Mostly men, then,” his head falls back in exasperation.

While he’s not looking, you roll your eyes and leave the bathroom. Moving back towards your bedroom, you’re just about ready to head out, only missing your coat and shoes. Geto is hot on your tracks, following you around from each room.

In the kitchen, you’re about to leave, heading for the door. He’s still behind you though and you’re growing frustrated, “Do you need something? Because I am about to leave.”

“Yes actually,” he gestures so you’ll walk closer to him, “You’re forgetting something.”

Cocking your head, you look at him curiously, not sure on what he’s referring to but moving towards him all the same. When you’re within reach, he’s pulling you towards him, mouth on yours within seconds.

His kiss is urgent and sloppy, not caring at all about how he may be ruining your lipstick. His tongue licks into your mouth, deepening the kiss. Hands searching your body, hot on every part of you.

Slowly, without you realising, he’d walked you to the kitchen, your back hitting the counter. Gasping at the unexpected contact, Geto only kisses you more, his lips needy and desperate against yours. He’s making you feel faint, your hands moving to hold onto him, needing to ground yourself, getting swept up in how good it feels to have his lips on yours.

Pulling yourself back, huffing against him, “What are –hah– you doing?”

“You forgot to kiss me goodbye,” he hums simply.

Your eyes are slightly dazed as your brows crease at him, “That was hardly a goodbye kiss.”

“You’re right,” he murmurs, leaning in again, “Not good enough, was it?”

You don’t get to answer, he’s already kissing you stupid again. Tongue insistent, mouth even more so. It’s messy and not even close to how you’d normally kiss him goodbye, almost like he’s trying to kiss you so hard that you forget you were even going out in the first place.

Fingers slide down your body, to the front of your pants. Deftly sliding into the front of them, down under the waistband of your panties, not wasting anymore time. Geto sees it like this – if you’re going to be going out with a bunch of men, he’s going to make sure you’re thinking about him the whole time.

“There isn’t time for –mmph– this,” you’re anxious about being late, he’s going to make you late.

“Of course there is, you always cum so nicely for me,” he noses the side of your face, “This won’t take long at all.”

That embarrasses you, your face twisting with your embarrassment, “Sugu–”

“Oh? It’s Suguru now? Been Geto this whole time but now you’re calling me by my name?” his tone is lilted, enjoying this, “You need something from me and now you’re acting familiar?”

Your fingers dig into his shoulders, brimming with frustration and arousal, “Please…”

“Please what?” His fingers inch down more, not touching you in any way that matters, “Please make you cum fast? Or please stop?”

Looking up at him, your eyes wet, you answer, “The first one.”

“Smart choice,” he praises.

He’s quick to touch you in a meaningful way then, fingers sliding through your slick folds. Making your already messy cunt even messier, spreading it all over. He can’t help but groan at how much you’re leaking for him, how is he meant to let you go out when you’re this needy, always so ready to take him.

His fingers prod at your entrance, slipping one finger inside, opening you up on him carefully. Gentle with this part, fucking you softly with one finger before adding another. The squelching sounds of your pussy obscene, it’s making you feel hot in the face.

Moans leaving you as his pace increases, your head falling forward onto his chest, hiding your face from him. His free hand grabs your throat and pulls your head back, looking you in your eyes, his thumb on your chin, keeping you still.

“You keep your eyes on me, wanna see when you start crying,” his eyes are filled with delight at how you already look like you might cry for him.

You gasp out his name, not really sure what you’re even asking for. He only hushes you, not at all concerned with the urgency in your tone.

One of his feet kicks at yours, spreading your legs wider. The moan you let out at the shift pornographic, breath stuttering with it. His fingers continue fucking you through it, speeding up, thumb circling your clit relentlessly.

You don’t have time to think, or really breathe, mind as hazy as your eyes. You’re not even really sure if you’re still looking at him, so out of it that you’ve lost all focus. Head sure to have lolled back if Geto weren’t holding it still.

His face leans in, tongue licking at the tears you weren’t even conscious of having shed, “Doing so good for me.”

His praise makes your cunt jump, knees buckling slightly. He chuckles at your visceral reaction. The way your greedy pussy sucks his fingers back in each time making him feral for you, wanting more than anything to fuck you so deep you can’t even think about going out.

He’s holding back though, he wants you to go out with your work friends in the panties you’re wearing, covered in your cum. He wants you daydreaming about his cock while you’re out and he wants you begging for it when you get home.

“If you want to make it somewhat on time, you better cum soon,” he warns, mouth against yours.

He kisses you deeply again, only furthering your fucked out state, His thumb on your clit even more insistent in its pressure, your body shaking against him, fighting to stay on your feet.

He breathes against you, “Clenching on my fingers so fucking tight, jus let go for me,” he nips at your lip, “Cum all over my fingers.”

All the air feels like it leaves your lungs, limbs twitching as you cum suddenly and violently all over his fingers. Stuffed full of them as he works you through it, he groans at how blissed out you look, at how you positively drench his fingers.

When you stop twitching, he moves your panties back into place and shoves his fingers covered in you into your mouth, making you clean them.

He smiles at you sweetly, “Better clean yourself up, don’t wanna be too late.”

𝑮𝑶𝑱𝑶 𝑺𝑨𝑻𝑶𝑹𝑼 ⭐︎

For what feels like the hundredth time tonight, your phone buzzes, you don’t even check it, already knowing who it is. Also because you’re out with a friend, at least you hope he realises he’s just a friend. It was supposed to be you two and one of your other friends but she’s suddenly not here and it’s just you and this guy you’re not all that close with.

Not only that, but this place is far fancier than you would’ve expected for just some friends catching up. You have a sneaking suspicion that this is a set up but it’s not like it bugs you a whole heap, you’ll be kind now and chew out the friend that orchestrated this later. He’s not overstepped or anything anyways, and he is a friend.

As for your incessantly buzzing phone, you hadn’t messaged Gojo back the whole time you had been out, well… that’s not true. You had been replying at first but then he started blowing up your phone and you couldn’t take it anymore and stopped looking.

Which, you realise now, was a mistake because you can feel him beside you, his tone chirpy as he speaks, “So you are alive!”

Your brows pull together, turning to look at him, “What are you doing here?”

“I was worried about you,” he smiles innocently.

Growing exasperated with him and also embarrassed, you quickly remind, “You knew I was going out with some friends.”

“Yeah… friends… but you know, it occurs to me that this looks like a date,” he turns to your friend, “What happened to the other person?” His tone is polite but feels threatening.

He looks taken aback, “She… cancelled?”

It’s not lost on you how his remark comes out like a question, like he might not be telling the truth.

Gojo stares at him carefully before speaking again, “Okay! Well, just give me a moment with my girlfriend and we’ll be right back.”

He’s tugging you up and along after him before you can protest, pulling you behind him into the restroom. Closing in on you as soon as you’re inside and the door is locked, eyes unreadable as he looks you over.

You’re hesitant to ask, “Gojo, what are you doing here?”

“Well, when it looks like my girlfriend is out on a date without me, I can’t help but grow a little suspicious about what you’re up to.” He gives you a tight-lipped smile.

Defending yourself, you tell him, “I didn’t know where we were going or that it was just us until I got here.”

“Then you should’ve left,” he’s pouting slightly now.

Feeling sheepish, you break eye contact with him, “I didn’t wanna be rude.”

He continues to pout at you, “So, you’re polite to everyone but me?” He sighs when you don’t answer, stepping closer to you, “How about to make it up to me, you let me fuck you right here, right now.”

Looking to him with shocked eyes, “You can’t be serious–”

“–Deadly.”

He leans in and kisses you, it’s filthy and not even a little bit polite, lips crashing with yours in a depraved manner. Tongue licking at yours, pulling moans and whines from you, his hands on your hips, moving you away from the door and towards the sink.

“Hands on the sink, I’m gonna take you from behind,” he nips at your lip as he pulls back.

You wish you had more of a fight left in you, but he kisses you so hot and he makes you so dizzy and quite simply, you want him. So, you do as he says, you turn around and place your hands on the sink counter, eyes catching his in the reflection. He smiles brightly at how well you listened to him.

His hands tug your pants down, pulling your panties to the side. Fingers playing with your pussy, sliding through your slick, making it messier, “Next time, you should just leave,” two of his fingers slip inside you and you fight the urge to moan, “Or call me and I will come get you.”

His fingers fuck into you fully, scissoring them open, trying to make sure you’ll be able to take him completely.

“Mm sorry,” you mumble out, head dropping down as you huff, hips pushing back into his fingers.

“I know, you assumed no malice,” he pulls back and you whine at the emptiness, “But you see…” his fingers undo his pants, pulling his painfully hard cock from them, “..You’re just so cute. So, you need to be more careful.”

The head of his dick prods at your entrance, slipping in slowly, not wanting to hurt you. His head leans down to yours, lips by your ear, “Since you’re already taken and all.” He hisses against you as he slips inside you deeper.

Fucking you on half of his cock, opening you up more and more with each thrust back inside. He grips your hips tight, needing to ground himself, getting too caught up in how wet and hot your cunt is.

The soft, lewd, squelching noises your pussy makes is making his heart stutter. Head lolling back at how completely consumed in pleasure he’s becoming. Soft calls of his name bringing him back.

Your voice small as you plead to him, “‘Toru, need –hng– more, please.”

“Got such a perfect cunt,” he murmurs lowly, “Don’t worry, I’ll give you everything you need.”

He thrusts his hips into you, pelvis smacking your ass as he forces the rest of his length into you all at once. You keen, loud moans about to pour from your lips just as Gojo slaps a hand over your mouth. Pulling you back and pressing your back to his front, he slips just the slightest bit deeper from it and your waterline fills with tears.

“Be quiet, don’t want anyone finding us before I finish so deep inside you, you’re leaking my cum inside your panties for the rest of your date,” he almost spits out the last word, joking in the usage but hating how he walked in to see that.

You can tell he’s genuinely hurt from the sight, “Mm sorry,” you mumble out from behind his hand.

“I know you are,” he huffs, kissing away one of your tears, “I don’t blame you, sweetheart.”

But with how he starts absolutely abusing your cunt, hitting your cervix with each of his thrusts, it certainly feels like he blames you. Your eyes rolling at the pleasure, mind scattering as he fucks into you so hard and fast you can barely even think.

Teeth grazing your throat before biting down into your skin, licking over the mark when he pulls back, “You’re going to cum all over me now and then later, when we get home, I’m gonna fuck you again and again and you’re gonna take it all. Until I forget the image of you on a date with someone else and all I can remember is how you look stuffed full of my cum.”

You can’t speak, his hand on your mouth preventing it, but glassy eyed and fucked out, you nod your affirmation at him. Accepting his terms. At it, his pace increases again, fucking into you like he might never get to again.

The slapping sound filling the room louder than any moan you could let out, his hand on your hips reaches around and rubs circles into your clit. The sudden stimulation would’ve had you folding if he weren’t holding you to him so tight.

Your eyes rolling as you cum abruptly, cunt choking Gojo’s dick, his thrusts slowing slightly. He doesn’t stop though, chasing his own high as well as riding out yours, thrusting into you only a few more times before pressing you back into the sink counter with a hand on the back of your neck.

He grinds into you from behind, cumming deep inside you, fucking it all inside, trying to make sure it gets as deep as he promised it would. His cock spasming as you twitch around him, pussy overstimulated and fucked raw.

Leaning down over you, his chest to your back, he murmurs into your ear, “Better make yourself presentable,” he kisses your cheek, “Your date’s waiting for you.”

𝑲𝑨𝑴𝑶 𝑪𝑯𝑶𝑺𝑶 ⭐︎

Getting ready has never been harder than it has been right now, you’ve been trying to get ready to go out all evening but it’s hard when Choso’s clinging to you the whole time. Hands on your hips as you look in the mirror, following you around the whole apartment like a lost puppy.

He’s not voiced any concerns, you don’t know if he has any, or if he’s just feeling especially needy tonight. You’re meant to be going out with a group of friends tonight, catching up over a few drinks, that kind of thing.

When you had told Choso this, he was fine with it, at first at least, until he learned that not only were there men amongst the group but that one of them was your ex. An ex from so long ago, you were just kids, it didn’t even count as a relationship to you but it’s making him uneasy. Especially when you’re dressing up so nicely, all done up, smelling so good, he can’t let you leave.

He’s having a hard time verbalising that though, and so he’s just following you around, struggling to voice his apprehension about the whole thing. Clearly growing tired of it, you turn around and stop him, “Choso, is something wrong?”

He looks away for a second, “…No.”

“You’re sure?” You double check.

He confirms, “Yes.”

You still don’t really believe him, a look of doubt etched on your features, “Okay… then I’m gonna leave now and I’ll call you when I’m on my way home.”

He nods at you, and you move in to give him a quick peck on the lips, he grabs you though and turns the kiss dirty. Tongue in your mouth, licking at you, pulling moans from you as he kisses you harshly.

Barely parting from you long enough to let you breathe, let alone speak, his kiss hot and heavy. When he does part from you, it’s to start sucking marks into your neck. Your breath stutters in your chest as you struggle to gain enough sense of self to talk to him.

“Cho–” You’re cut off suddenly because he’s picked you up and walked back into your room.

Dropped onto the bed suddenly, he looks down at you, “Don’t want you to go out,” he huffs, “Wanna taste you.”

“Cho, I have to go out,” you gasp out.

He’s travelling down your body, already pulling your pants off, chucking them across the room. His speed in undressing you never fails to amaze you, always so quick to leave you bare before him. His gaze greedy as he looks at your panty covered cunt.

Wetness seeping into the cotton, dark spot present where your slick leaks from you. He leans into it, nose pressing at your clit as he licks at you from over your panties. It makes your head buzz, the friction different and unexpected, your hips raising into him.

“Smell so good,” he groans out, hips digging into the mattress below, need climbing up his own spine.

“Please,” you whimper at him.

“You want me to take these off?” He asks, “Or do you want to go out?”

You don’t even have to think about your answer, “Off, I want them off, please.”

“Since you asked so nicely,” he hums, ripping them off you, throwing them on the floor somewhere he’s not concerned with right now.

The only thing he is concerned with right now, is how your pussy glistens for him. So wet and needy, he could probably fuck into you like this, make you take him all. He’s not evil though, and he’s also desperate to have your cum in his mouth so he’s gonna tongue fuck you until you forget you were meant to go out today.

His tongue licks at you, from your hole to your clit, where he sucks harshly at you. The pleasure shocking you to your core, thighs twitching by his head. Hands reaching out to tug at the bed sheets.

Head tipping back with your moans, biting your lip to try and stop them but failing completely, especially when he licks into your pussy, his nose rubbing against your clit with how deep he fucks it into you.

When you look down at him, he’s already looking back at you, eyes sharp. It makes you dizzy, how focused on you and your reactions he is. His hands grip your thighs and push them apart more, spreading you as wide as you’ll go. He wants his tongue to go as deep as it possibly can.

If he wasn’t so in control of your body, you’d worry that he was going to hurt himself with the force of how he was eating you out. Always so completely involved in your cunt when he’s tongue fucking you, not a single other thing on his mind but how you taste, how you sound, how you react so cutely to his touch.

Flicking his tongue in ways that make you go cross eyed, body twitching pathetically at how ravenous he is. The lewd sounds of his tongue lapping at your dripping pussy would make you self-conscious but then his nose rubs at your clit in the most delicious way and suddenly you don’t care about anything but how good it feels.

Choso is relishing in how fucked out you’re getting for him, delighted in how you’re falling apart so quickly. His hips can’t help but hump into the bed, his need growing with every single sound you make, with every taste of you he has.

It doesn’t take you long at all to cum on his face, calling out his name as your cunt gushes all over him. His mouth happily drinking it all down, finally getting what he wanted, your cum in his mouth.

His hips stutter into the bed as he sucks at your pussy, cumming in his pants with his mouth on you. Not even a little bit embarrassed about it, feeling relief at being able to finish. His own cum coating his pants.

He keeps licking at you and you twitch in overstimulation, trying to pull away from him. His strong hands hold you still as he grunts out, “Not done yet, need more,” He nips your thigh, voice completely wrecked for you, “Need it.”

PLAGIARISM NOT CONDONED | REPOSTS NOT AUTHORISED

a/n; toji's wasnt as horny as i wanted it to be but i realised i was yapping a bit too much and cut it short, sorry !!! otherwise thank you for reading and i hope you enjoyed it !! <3

[gothicpaperback]

the way he cares | joel miller x you

{ part two >>>

wc: 2,2k | rating: 18+ for eventual smut | Joel Miller x You | Enemy Pregnancy

summary: Joel Miller has been my pain-in-the-ass neighbour for years. we argue more than we speak and when we do speak, it's usually through gritted teeth. but when my doctor tells me my fertility’s running out of time, panic sets in. I want a baby and I don’t have the luxury of waiting around for Mr. Right. Joel's a damn good father to his daughter, Sarah. that much, I can’t deny. so one night, fuelled by nerves and just the right amount of wine, I ask him the unthinkable: get me pregnant. no strings.no romance. just biology. i never planned on falling for him. but nothing about Joel Miller ever goes according to plan.

while the story is first person narrative, the OC female character is YOU. she is not named and barely physically described aside from being able bodied and having hair long enough to grab.

tags/warnings: neighbours, enemies to lovers, comedy, smut, sexual tension, mentions of fertility and reproductive issues, mentions of drugs and alcohol. i will add more tags as they become relevant.

THE WAY HE CARES | PART ONE

I looked down at the paper in my hand, the one from the doctor with my fertility results. She’d already explained everything in her office, but somehow seeing it in writing hit harder. I don’t have much time left. Not many eggs. It's basically now or never if I want to get pregnant.

And I have no options. My last boyfriend turned out to be a drug dealer, and the one before that? Gay. Neither of them particularly brilliant or charismatic, if I’m being honest. I don’t have any close male friends, and my best friend lives across the country ever since I moved to Texas.

I’ve wanted a child for as long as I can remember, since I was little enough to play dress-up with my dolls. I always imagined having at least three smiling babies. Now there’s a real chance I might never even have one.

“Sarah, c’mon now, you're going to be late!”

I lifted my head and looked through the kitchen window. There he was—those familiar long legs in worn denim, the broad shoulders, the obnoxiously muscular arms.

That’s Joel Miller. The man across the street. And he is a real boring asshole.

His truck is loud enough to wake the dead every morning. That’s how I learned his name, actually, plastered all over the side in bold letters: *Miller Brothers Construction – Hard Hats, Honest Work.* What does that even mean?

I looked him up once, I couldn’t help it. Found his cheesy smiling face on the company website, right next to his brother Tommy. I’ve seen Tommy around a few times, over for cookouts or picking Joel up.

Both of them have bios on the site. Tommy Miller “loves being with his wife and son” blah blah. Joel Miller “enjoys spending time with his daughter, fishing” and even more blah blah. They sound like the human equivalent of unsalted crackers.

But being boring isn’t a crime. It’s not why I dislike him.

That started the day I moved in.

I was lugging my last suitcase from the moving van I'd rented when I heard his voice. Low and growly. 

"You need help, ma'am?"

"No I'm okay-" I started but he was already taking the handle from me, lifting the bag as if it weighed nothing. His arms were so solid under his black t-shirt. 

He moved quickly down my driveway, heading for the open door of my new house. I had a great view of his ass in those jeans as he moved. 

I can admit I was attracted to him for a moment. Just the tiniest, shortest moment. Before he really opened his mouth. I followed him inside like a useless puppy, nothing to do just follow. He walked right in and didn't even bother wiping his shoes. So much for Southern manners. 

"Just there by the table is fine." 

He let the bag down by the side of my kitchen table before he took a moment to see the boxes and bags I'd unloaded. 

"Thank you for your help," I said trying not to be upset by the dirt he'd tracked in. 

"My pleasure, ma'am," he said softly. "But if I'm honest, it's shameful your husband didn't help you with this."

My eye twitched. "No husband."

"You mean you're going to live here all on your own?"

I'm a pretty nice person most of the time. But this comment really pissed me off. 

"Yeah, they're letting us women-folk work too. Can you believe I have a job?"

He didn't stick along after that. He just muttered that he needed to pick up his daughter from school and I was glad to see the back of him. 

After that we didn't talk much. 

The only thing that ever saved him from a flaming bag of dog crap on his porch was his daughter. Sarah. She’s a teenager, but somehow still polite, smart, beautiful, and actually friendly, which is suspicious in and of itself. She waves when she sees me. Says “yes, ma’am” without sounding sarcastic. Honestly, she seems like the kind of kid people brag about on Facebook with a million heart emojis.

On the weekends she’s at her mom’s I catch Joel puttering around the yard alone. He never smiles. Just scowls at weeds like they personally offended him. I’ve never seen someone take landscaping so seriously and look so miserable doing it.

We never actually fought. Not really. 

Just exchanged glares over hedges and passive-aggressively outdone each other.

I made a point of keeping my yard pristine. Edged, trimmed, and greener than his by a mile. I even bought one of those fancy solar-powered sprinklers. 

Joel retaliated by reseeding his whole front lawn and installing a flower bed that, unfortunately, looked incredible.

When I put out tasteful fall decorations, one pumpkin, a witches hat, he rolled out a literal hay bale display with a scarecrow wearing a Miller Brothers hard hat. 

The neighbourhood association newsletter featured a picture of it under the caption “Festive and Fun!” I considered reporting him for emotional terrorism.

It didn’t stop there. He started waving to all the other neighbours like he was running for office. And they loved him. Old Mrs. Delaney even brought him cookies once. She’s never looked me directly in the eye.

So now we’re locked in a Cold War of suburban perfection. He trims his hedges? I repaint my porch swing. I host a book club? He starts handing out homemade jerky from some weekend hunting trip. 

The man is everywhere. Helping people carry groceries. Fixing someone’s porch railing. Once I caught him rescuing a cat from under a car and nearly sprained an eye rolling it.

But I’ll be damned if I lose. I started composting. I learned how to patch drywall. I helped Mrs. Delaney carry her Costco haul and smiled so hard I think I pulled something in my face.

We don’t speak, but we know. We know. It's petty. It's exhausting. And it's the most thrilling part of my week.

I’d just gotten back from the store, struggling with a massive bag of potting soil because my dumb ass decided my flower beds needed a full spring refresh *that day.* I was halfway up the driveway, arms straining, when the bag slipped out of my grip and split open across the concrete.

Soil everywhere. Like a garden crime scene.

I froze, already sweating and swearing internally, when I heard that familiar voice across the street:

“You know, they make those in smaller bags. For normal people.”

I looked up. Joel was leaning against his mailbox like some denim-clad statue of smug masculinity, arms crossed, that annoying little smirk playing at his mouth. I didn’t answer. Just knelt down and started scooping dirt back into what remained of the bag, muttering curses under my breath.

A few minutes later, I heard the clatter of something plastic hitting the ground beside me. Sitting there was a brand-new bag of potting soil. Same brand. Still sealed. 

I couldn't even look at him I was so embarrassed. 

"I don't need your pity." 

"It ain't pity," he told me as he left. "Your garden looks like shit and it's bringin' down the value of the rest of the houses on the block." 

I wanted to punch that smug look off his face. I wanted to slap the twang out of his mouth. But I still used the damn soil.

Then there was the mailbox.  Mine had started to tilt slightly forward, just a little lean, like it was tired of standing up straight. I noticed it, of course. I just hadn’t gotten around to fixing it. Between work and the crushing weight of existential dread, a crooked mailbox hadn’t exactly topped my priority list.

Then one morning, I stepped outside and it was fixed. Perfectly straight. Re-set in the ground with new concrete, edges cleaned up, even the numbers re-stuck in neat alignment. There was no note. No door knock. No mention.

I looked across the street, and there he was. Joel. Watering his stupidly green lawn like he hadn’t just crossed a major boundary. He came onto my property when I wasn't aware of it. He touched my personal item. Everyone in the neighbourhood would have assumed he did it to be kind but I knew better.  He was showing me that no matter what I did, he would always be better. 

It was when Joel started getting up at the ass crack of dawn on Sundays (my one day off) to mow his damn lawn that I finally lost it on him. 

I’d been trying to sleep in, just once, and there he was, revving up that mower like it was a NASCAR engine, right outside my window. Who mows at 6:45 a.m.? A psychopath, that’s who. I flew out of my house in my pyjamas, not caring that my hair was a mess or that my clothes were wildly ill-fitting.

"SHUT THAT FUCKING THING OFF!"

He either couldn’t hear me or pretended not to. I wasn’t sure which, his back was to me, hunched over that god-awful mower like it was a beloved pet.

What I do know is that he practically jumped out of his skin when I smacked the back of his shoulder blade.

He spun around fast, eyes blazing, and then for just a second his gaze dropped, dragging down the length of me. I saw it. That quick flicker of surprise, maybe even interest. If it had come from any other man, I might’ve welcomed it.

Instead, my scowl deepened. I planted my hands on my hips, one bare foot tapping against the driveway. I must’ve looked like a lunatic.

"Why the fuck are you mowing your lawn this early?"

"It's Sunday."

"I'm aware."

"I’m busy during the week, and I like to relax on Saturdays. This is my only free day to mow."

"Joel, I don’t give a shit what day of the week it is. I care that it’s not even seven in the goddamn morning. On my one day off."

"Well, I-"

"I mean, for fuck’s sake, Miller. It’s common sense. You see anyone else out here mowing right now?"

He blinked at me. Slowly. Like he was either confused or buying time to come up with a really bad comeback. For a second, I even thought maybe he felt bad. Nope.

"I also don’t see anyone else screamin’ at the top of their lungs in some skimpy outfit either."

I looked down. Thin tank top, old sleep shorts. No bra. Awesome.I blinked. My mouth opened, something sharp, something devastating on the tip of my tongue but my brain short-circuited.

All I could think about was the breeze hitting my bare thighs and the smug look crawling across Joel Miller’s stupidly handsome, smug-as-hell face.

Skimpy outfit. Skimpy.I could feel my ears turning red.

“You’re a dick,” I muttered, but it came out weak. Even I wasn’t convinced.

Joel just raised his eyebrows, like he was waiting for something better. Something clever. Something worthy of the standoff we’d apparently just entered. I had nothing.

So I did the only thing I could think of: I flipped him the bird. A full, dramatic middle finger right between the eyes. Then I spun on my heel and marched back toward my house, bare foot slapping hard against the pavement.

I didn’t slam the door behind me, but only because I tripped over a rogue slipper on the way in. At least after that he stopped mowing Sunday mornings. 

Now I watch him through the glass, smiling and laughing at something with Sarah. The two of them are close, peas in a pod.

He’s soft with her. Gentle. Patient. I see it when I go to check the mail or when we happen to pull into our driveways at the same time. They’re usually mid-laugh, Joel teasing her in that light, affectionate way dads do. She always has a snappy comeback ready, sharp, funny. She’s clever like that.

I’ve never once heard him yell at her. Never seen her storm out of the house screaming about how much she hates him. No slammed doors. No dramatic teenage meltdowns. Just peace. The neighbours confirm what I already know: Joel Miller is a great dad.

Maybe that’s why, on that Saturday night, when I knew Sarah was at her mom’s and he was alone, I went over with a plate of brownies. I’d never been this close to his house before. I couldn’t help but admire it. Everything about it was just as annoyingly perfect as the man himself. 

The freshly lacquered front door, the manicured garden bed with not a single weed in sight. Even the damn porch light had a charming glow, like it had been curated for an Instagram ad. I knocked and shifted from foot to foot, nerves jangling.

When he opened the door, he was wearing a gray t-shirt and dark sweatpants. Also, he wasn’t wearing anything under them. I could tell. The light shifted. So did he. And there it was. He blinked at me, trying to place my face in the semi-darkness. Then his eyes widened slightly.

“What do you need?” he asked, eyeing the plate like it might explode. 

We weren’t friends. Social calls weren’t part of our dynamic. This wasn’t normal. But then again, neither was what I said next.

“Miller,” I began, my voice much steadier than I expected, “Will you have sex with me?" 

[ghostinboys]

let the light in

summary: you invite your neighbor for dinner, surely that's everything that happens right? pairing: joel miller x male reader warning: male reader smut! (sorta unprotected scenario–use protection wisely!)

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It’ll be good for you. Is what your uncle said to you when he asked you to house sit for him for the whole summer.

You convinced yourself he was right–that being away from the city could be good for you, alleviating some of that stress that’s been building up for some time ever since you graduated college. You could pick up a job at the local bookstore or mow people’s lawns, before entering the actual workforce in some corporate job in the city. It’ll be nice, it has to be. 

Or not. With a loud thud your stuff scattered all over the driveway. “Fuck!” you yelped, anxiously picking up the fallen books, the cardboard box labelled “desk stuff” ripped from getting moved. Your back already ached from all the work, your skin wet and sticky from the blazing sun. Thankfully, a pair of hands helped you with the task. 

“Shit–you don’t have to, it's fine,” you scrambled, picking up more stuff faster. 

“It’s alright, bud,” the man said, the southern accent rolling off his tongue like fresh honey. You quickly glanced at him, clad in a worn out shirt, denim jeans, and leather boots. His broad frame eclipsed your pens and markers from the sun, his calloused hands picked the tools with a swiftness that made you think he worked at a workshop or a construction site. It didn’t help that his thick arms flexed, filling the hems of the shirt. 

“Thank you,” you answered, your voice was hoarse and shaky. He lifted his tousled brown hair to reveal a handsome face, covered in a stubble of brown and grey. Damn, you thought, he looked like those men they put in cowboy eroticas you saw in the airport bookshop. “You must be, Joel.”

“Damn, right,” he said, a cheeky smile plastered across his face. He took some more stuff from the floor, bending down to the point where his shirt was hiked up revealing the elastic band of his underwear. Dude–stop looking, you told yourself. “You must be the new kid here, housesitting for your uncle right?”

He met your gaze, wide brown eyes with furrowed brows. “Hardly a kid anymore,” you jest. Joel toyed with the markers, trying to think of a clever comeback. You stared at him, like truly stared at him. Despite all the marks of age he really was handsome, it made you think what he looked like when he was in his late twenties. There was a wash of melancholy in his face, as if time had done him the worst of challenges. 

When Joel twisted on the cap of one marker it started to buzz, a quiet vibrating sound that only you two could hear. Your eyes widened, it wasn’t a marker per say, but a sex toy that looked like a marker. With your mouth agape and your finger joints shaking, you snatched the toy from his hand, your skin brushing against his. 

“Seems like it,” he said smirking, proud of his comeback. You instantly hid it in your back pocket and proceeded to pick up more stuff. He couldn’t come up with his next retort, anxious that he might have embarrassed you. “You know, stuff like that wasn’t really in during my time, but I respect young couples trying out new stuff.” 

You cringe in horror, what the hell just happened right now. “I’m so sorry, Joel,” you said, avoiding his gaze. 

“Is alright,” he put his hands on his hips. “I’ll pretend I didn’t see a thing,” he smiled, the way he said thing made you chuckle. 

“What’s funny?” He was dumbfounded. He resorted to folding his arms across his wide chest; the veins on his arms more prominent. You could see the edge of his shirt life, a small trail of hair being visible. 

“Nothing!” you stuttered. “Maybe I could invite you for dinner? As a thank you for helping me,” you looked at the trees behind him. “And as an apology for what you saw,” your fingers dug into your palms leaving moon shaped marks.

Joel managed to help you bring everything inside the house. He volunteered to help you unpack too, but due to what happened earlier, you chose to leave the task to yourself, in hopes of not uncovering more private stuff. 

The night settled in. The steak and vegetables you prepared were already devoured by your neighbor. “Did I tire you that bad?” you said, finishing up the last bits of your steak. He gave you that cheeky smile again, a smile you slowly got to admire. He wiped his lips with a napkin, taking a sip of the wine he brought as a housewarming gift. 

“Big appetite,” he said. “You have to have one if this is the type of food you’re gettin,” you were glad. If you wanted to have more chances of seeing and talking to Joel, might as well lure him with good food. “Thank you by the way, and trust me whatever I saw earlier is never gettin’ brought up' again.”

“Shit, I thought the food already made you forget,” he laughed, that type of dad and his friends at the backyard laugh. The two of you proceeded to finish the whole bottle of wine while discussing your lives. You told him about your summer plans, he recommended some stores that were looking for people. He told you about his job too, he owned a small construction company. 

As the moon went deeper in the night, the neighborhood was more silent. Maybe it was the wine but the topics became deeper as well. He asked if you had a girlfriend, you told him you didn’t and that you weren’t interested. Although he was hesitant at first, he decided to confide in you that he was divorced and his daughter would be spending the summer with his ex-wife. 

Joel was deep in thought after talking about his daughter, his eyes more reflective, possibly tears. He cleared his throat and stood up, drying his sweaty palms on his jeans. “I should go, the wine is messin with me,” he lets out an anxious laugh. At this moment, the two of you didn’t feel like strangers. You could feel the sadness in his gaze, the way his lips quivered and his hands shaked. 

You walked him back to his house. It was you who broke the silence, Joel busy with finding the right key. “I’d like to thank you for today,” he looked back and smiled. “Sorry if the conversation got a little too personal, but from what I’ve heard, I think you’re a great dad.” 

He huffed, the warm air flowing against the cold night. He took your hand, it was rough and feverish. You inched towards him, his back hitting the closed door. You touched his cheek, the stubble pricking your palm. The kiss was sweet, cozy, and much needed. 

Joel’s arms wrapped around your waist, pulling you closer. Maybe it really was the alcohol, and surely this was just a casual thing. Tomorrow, you’ll go back to being neighbors, say hi, maybe exchange quick chats, but nothing more. Deep inside, you wished it became more. Maybe ask him out, more dinners, watch movies, dates, like a lot of dates. With casual kissing, and hopefully, fucking. 

Your hands slid down his chest and reached finality in his belt buckles, one hand pulling on the loops while the other palmed his growling erection. He flinched, pausing from kissing to let out an exasperated moan. “Wait,” he said, his breaths heavy. “Are you sure you want this?”

“Yes,” it was the clearest yes you’ve ever given someone. 

A path of your clothes trailed towards his bedroom. He didn’t bother to turn on the lights, the moonlight was enough for you to see his body, all the hard muscles, the veins, the softness of his abdomen, and the trail down his hard cock. Despite how reckless the steps leading up to this moment was, Joel gently laid you on his bed. You lost yourself in his dark eyes, they were half lidded now, solemn but wanting. 

His soft curls laced through your fingers, your thumbs rubbing against his ears. The kisses turned from soft kisses to longer drabs of tongue, hungrier and more carnal. He took time to trace each part of your body as well, your waist, your sensitive nipples, your thighs that he pulled so he could place himself in between. “God, you’re beautiful,” he murmured, his voice deep and hoarse. 

“You too,” he gave you one last deep kiss before he slowly pulled your boxers off. You felt a bit conscious of the way you looked. A few hours ago you were just strangers, and now you’re naked in his bed. He kissed your neck, taking short suckles of skin down to your collarbone. His hands were busy stimulating you elsewhere. He touched your sex, now aching and dripping with precome. 

Joel rocked his hips at your center, his erection rubbing against yours. He took his boxers off, revealing the thick hardon he’s been sporting since you entered the house. You stroked it with a dry hand, his precome dripping and lubricating your strokes. He tried to fight the sounds that were brimming at his throat, but alas they came out with carnal grunts. “That feels too fuckin’ good.”

“I want it inside me, Joel,” you pleaded, focusing on using the wetness to your advantage by toying with the sensitive head. He bent his nightstand drawer, there were some old pieces of screws, an old broken watch, a bottle of lotion, and tissue. He knew he didn’t have any, there was no use for him since he hasn’t been with anyone since the divorce, he did it to assure you he wasn’t lying about having any.

“Shit–I don’t have any condoms,” he said, palming his head. You pulled him back for a kiss before pushing him to his back. Straddling his thighs, you continued to stroke his hard cock. His lips were open, his chest heaving and breathless. The veins on his neck were more visible as he tried his best not to cum from your touch. 

“It’s fine,” you said. His cock oozed with more precome, you used some spit to prepare your hole. You know from his thickness it would sting, but it was a sacrifice you were willing to make. “I’m on PrEP, don't worry.” 

Joel let out a sigh of relief. He guided his cock to your hole, letting out a guttural moan as you bottomed out. You took a deep breath, easing the sting of you adjusting to his size. He looked at you with so much lust you swear you would have mistaken it for love. How badly did you wish for this to be your everyday? The wine must have really fucked with you for you to think you could be his stay at home boyfriend. 

“I’ll move now,” you murmured. Fuck, Joel thought. The heat and tightness of your hole was already intoxicating. You started to rock your hips, his grip on your waist tighter. He felt more of his soul was being sucked out of his body, his cock felt so good fucking into your hole.

“That feels so fuckin’ good,” his thighs quivered. Each slap of your ass on his hip made Joel feel like he would die in any minute. His heart was pounding in his chest, his cheeks felt hot, he was dazed beyond inhibition. “Can’t get enough of this.”

“Me too,” you squeezed your eyes shut, taking in the feeling of his cock stretching you open. “You’re so fucking big,” you rid his cock faster, the tip aggressively hitting the sensitive spot inside you. 

“Feels better than that toy you got, huh?” For months you had that toy to use, substituting the feeling of a real man inside you. At this point, you forgot you even had one, all you wanted from this day on was Joel. 

“Oh, god,” you were flushed with timidity and lust. You were close, you could already envision your come all over his broad chest, leaving his skin glistening with your arousal. “I’m close, Joel.”

“Go’n come too, baby,” he said, the southern drawl was even more sensual, more provocative, more sexy. His body tensed, a hoarse cry left his mouth, he shot his come, filling you with the warm liquid. 

The knot inside you snapped with a loud cry, your come shooting all over Joel’s chest up to his beard. You cursed, dropping to his chest while catching your breath. Your chests shared in the wetness, and in one last act of perversion, you licked the come on his beard and joined his tongue in a heated kiss. 

Everything that happened after was a haze. After Joel was able to catch his breath, he went to the bathroom to take a towel, cleaning himself off and gently cleaning you up. The two of you joined in embrace and let the slumber cuddle you. 

You woke to his soft snores in your ear, his arms still wrapped around you. The stirring of your bodies made his sex brush against your ass, like the night before it was already aching hard. "Someone's eager this morning," you said.

"Why wouldn't I, I still need to use that toy on ya," he murmured, brushing his cock against your ass again, smiles plastered across your faces.

end.

tag list: @hellsburners @boypied

[piastappies]

ᯓᡣ𐭩 FORTS AND DADDY TIME! ᡣ𐭩ᯓ

pairing. oscar piastri x leclerc!wife!reader

summary. when you need to stay at work for longer than expected, you leave oscar with your daughter. when you come home earlier than your husband thought, the cutest scene plays in front of you.

notes. tysm for loving my previous dad!oscar fic!!! this one’s also not proofread but lets pretend like there is not a single mistake in here 😙😙😙

days like this were the hardest, especially with the thought of oscar’s summer break inevitable ending occupying your mind. every year, you wanted to make sure you had spent the maximum time with him and chloe, before parting your ways for a while again. going back to the office, while you were spending the precious time with your husband and daughter, was something you hated, mostly, because chloe was the biggest daddy’s girl on earth. some people might’ve gotten jealous over the fact that they’re not their baby’s favorite parent, but you loved watching oscar interact with chloe.

but honestly, leaving them alone was still a bit of a stressful situation for you and your emotions were all over the place as you tried writing down all the necessary things just in case oscsr forgets, which wasn’t likely to happen, but still — you wanted to be more than sure.

“baby, i know how to look after chloe.” oscar laughed softly, his arms wrapped around your waist as he stood behind, placing a single kiss on your neck. “we’re gonna have much fun today, right, squish?” he asked, when the little girl leaned on his leg, looking up at the two of you with a sweet smile. she nodded eagerly, earning a small chuckle from you.

“i good girl.” chloe replied confidently, wrapping her arms around oscar’s leg, wanting to stay as close to him as possible, despite it was you the one leaving (even if it was for a few long hours). “mommy good girl, too! and daddy good girl, too too!” the two of you had to stifle a laugh as your daughter praised you on being good girls.

a few minutes later, quite a couple of reassuring words from your husband, a few wet, sloppy kisses on your cheeks and a literal push out of the door and oscar was left with your little squish. at first everything was calm, chloe was sprawled out on the carpet, playing with her little’s pet shops collection, making a little voice-over, while your husband was preparing a strawberry smoothie for her.

though, before he knew it, he was dressed in one of your dresses, wearing a plastic tiara on his head with stickers plastered all over his cheeks, while sitting at chloe’s small, colourful table with some of her favorite plushies (a panda named jimmy, a koala named arty [after her favorite uncle], ginny the giraffe and daphne the dolphin).

“c’mon, princess squish, do a spin for daddy.” oscar smiled, watching as his daughter did a spin. he helped her get into her purple tutu dress, put a tiara and a few hair clips in the strands of her blond hair. to make her princess tea party experience even better, he took some of your eyeshadow palettes and put some on her to match her purple dress.

“i so pretty, daddy!” she squeaked happily, doing a little dance. “tea?” she asks as she plops down on her dad’s lap, pouring a pretend tea into his pink cup. “tasty, tasty.” she nodded, taking a sip.

“yeah, you’re my pretty princess, squish.” oscar chuckled, earning himself one of the most beautiful views in the world — his daughter grinning, showing him her baby teeth. your husband couldn’t help but to grin back at her, feeling her little arms wrap around his neck as she went in for a hug.

oscar was a sucker for moment like those, as much as he wished you were there to witness it, he loved spending time with chloe, seeing her grow up every day, noticing those slight changes in the way she constructed her sentences and how the incoherent babbling started to turn into actual words and sentences. he was counting down the days till she was old enough to not tire you out whenever on a flight, so he could see her happy face after a race and to show her the beauties of the world on a free day. god, she was the the most important person in the world for him in a way he could drop everything to make sure she was happy.

his heart ached painfully, every time he was away from you and chloe for longer than a few days and with his hectic schedule. everything seemed to be a lot better, when his lucky charms were next to him.

the princess tea party went on for almost another hour until the princess hosting it started to slowly get tired and tired, snuggling up to him after they finished cleaning everything up. it took them some time, because she had to give each of her plushies a few kisses before placing them in her bed, tucking them in. “you’re such a sweet girl, aren’t you, baby?” he chuckled, watching her as he leaned on the doorframe of her room.

she tilted her head with a tiny smile as she ran towards her dad, unfortunately, she tripped on the edge of the carpet, scraping her knees at the friction as she fell. tears started falling down her cheeks in an instant and oscar’s heart broke in half. he knew accidents happen all the time, but he wasn’t prepared for one involving his daughter, when he was all alone, even if it was just a small scratch.

“shh, hey, what’s with the fuss?” he asked in a calm voice, gently picking her up. your husband placed a few soft kisses on chloe’s wet cheek to calm her down. “s’okay, daddy’s gonna take care of your ouchie.” he reassured as she nuzzled her teary face against his neck, sniffling quietly.

“fait mal, daddy.” she sniffled. oscar was glad that once in a while, your brothers wanted to mess with him and spoke only in french before chloe was born, so he could pick up on what his daughter was saying. hurts.

“i know, squish.” he sighed, gently sitting her down on the couch, telling his baby to sit still, while she tried to wipe away her flowing cheeks. he sprayed antiseptic on her scratches, holding her hand with his free one. a small gasp left his daughter’s lips as the spray coated her ouchies. “such a brave, girl.” he coaxed, placing two band-aids on her disinfected knees (with puppies, of course). when her face was no longer in tears, a sad pout appeared on her lips, making oscar’s stomach turn.

“how about, we make a blanket fort and watch some cartoon before you go to sleep, hm?” he suggested, the pout disappearing in a second, being replaced my a grin. a blanket fort? that sounds super cool. he pulled a few chairs together, putting a blanket on top of it as chloe’s eyes widened in shock and excitement.

the final product was breathtaking, at least for chloe, because oscar did everything he could to make the blanket fort look magical as he put pillows on the floor, put up lights and brought his ipad to play chloe’s favorite movie.

before he knew it, his little girl was curled up against his side, his hand gently moving up and down against her back as her head rested on the side of his chest. her eyes were slowly closing, but she wanted to stay in the fort and he wasn’t in the mood to deal with a tantrum of a sleepy, cranky little girl.

when you came back from work, the apartment looked clean, as if oscar sedated your little ball of energy and hired a cleaning company. that was your thought process, until you noticed a blanket fort in the living room and your heart melted like a chocolate in a water bath. you quietly took off your shoes and tiptoed to the fort, peaking inside. seeing the view completely shattered your heart in the most positive way possible.

“you’re back already?” oscar asked quietly, not wanting to disturb chloe’s sleep as she was laying down on his chest. “thought it’d take a little longer.” he smiled affectionately at you.

“think there’s some room for me?” your mouth curled into a small beam as he nodded, quickly taking a spot next to him, finally noticing that he’s wearing one of your dresses and you had to stiffle a laugh.

oscar noticed your expression and groaned quietly. “we had a princess party.” he explained, though the pretend angered look quickly dissolved, replaced by a playful smile. “your daughter didn’t let me be a prince, so i had to stole one of your dresses. i’ll show you the photos tomorrow morning.” he kissed your temple as you snuggled up closer, your hand gently rubbing chloe’s back.

[magalhaessims]

SAN MYSHUNO SHOPPING ST. - MAXIS-MATCH CC BUILD

Here's the commercial building complex I've been working on for the last few weeks! Thank you, guys, for your suggestions for the stores! I ended up adding a café, bookstore, flower shop, and a fancy travel agency. If you want to check out the construction progress, watch the YouTube video linked below.

NOT CC FREE 

Lot Type: Café | Retail

Size: 30x30

World: San Myshuno

Enable bb.moveobjects before placing in your game!

📺 WATCH THE SPEED BUILD HERE ✨

Origin ID: MagalhaesSims (remember to enable custom content on!) DOWNLOAD

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[mysticalcrowntyrant]

I just found your blog and I feel like I finally found a home, a place I can come to for comfort. What you do is art.

If you can and want to. I'd like to ask you for a Yandere fighter x Reader. A martial arts fighter and boxer, the typical man that all men dream of being and that women dream about.

X a reader who is nothing special, in fact, they has self-esteem issues, and when a rich, strong, handsome giant shows interest in them they doesn't believe it and thinks the guy is just pulling their leg. Because, why would someone like him be interested in something like they? And the guy, he's not just in love, he's obsessed.

I don't know if you like the idea, if you like it (just in case you like it a lot) maybe you could even make it a series?

Thanks for your work, I really love it

Yandere Boxer x Reader

AN: I LOVE this idea! I hope I did it justice—this is my first time writing something based on someone else's idea... : ) Also, you're such a sweetheart! Thank you so much for the support!!!

You’re wiping down table twelve when the bell above the door jingles.

It’s not like you’re expecting anyone special. Just the usual lunchtime crowd—construction guys with calloused hands, tired-looking moms with strollers, maybe the occasional old man who tips in quarters. You’re invisible here, just another uniform and a weak smile behind cracked lipstick. No one looks at you twice, and that’s fine. You don’t want them to. Attention only makes things worse.

But today, the air shifts.

You don’t even look up at first. You murmur a half-hearted, “Sit anywhere you like,” and keep scrubbing the table even though it’s already clean. It’s not until silence falls—unnatural, heavy—that you glance over your shoulder.

And then… you see him.

He doesn’t belong here. Not in this washed-out diner with its flickering neon sign and sticky floors. He’s too clean, too sharp, too big for this world. He has to duck slightly to get through the door, and his frame fills the entryway like a shadow cast at sunset—broad shoulders under a tailored black coat, muscles straining against fabric, the kind of body that looks like it was built to destroy and worship all at once.

You freeze, rag clutched in your fist, heartbeat stuttering like a skipped record.

He’s beautiful in a way that’s violent. Square jaw, dark eyes that flick up and down your body in one sweep—and not the gross kind, not the kind you’ve seen a hundred times before. No, his gaze is clinical. Calculating. Like he’s already taken you apart and figured out where every piece fits.

You look away quickly. Pretend you didn’t notice. People like him don’t look at people like you. You’re not stupid.

He slides into a booth by the window. Doesn't pick up a menu. Doesn’t need to. Just watches you.

You swallow and force your legs to move. Feet dragging, heart sinking. You grab your notepad like it’s a shield and shuffle over to him, plastering on a tired smile.

“Uh… hi. What can I get you?”

“What’s good here?” he asks, eyes never leaving yours.

You blink. “Honestly? Nothing. But the coffee’s cheap.”

A pause. Then—he smiles. Not big. Not showy. Just the curve of his mouth, a flicker of approval. It makes your stomach twist in a way you don’t like.

“I’ll take that, then,” he says. “And whatever you’d eat, if you were sitting with me.”

Your throat tightens. You laugh, awkward, nerves sparking under your skin. “I—I don’t eat here.”

“Then what do you eat?” he presses, voice low.

You stare at your notepad, cheeks burning. He’s messing with you. Has to be. Guys like him don’t flirt with nobodies. You don’t even wear makeup most days. You haven’t bought new clothes in months. You're tired. You’re small, forgettable.

“I’ll just get you the coffee,” you mutter, spinning on your heel before he can say anything else.

But he keeps coming back.

Every day, like clockwork. Sometimes twice. He never eats much, just drinks the coffee and watches you work. Sometimes he brings a book but doesn’t read it. Sometimes he asks questions—your name, how long you’ve worked here, if you walk home alone. You lie, of course. Say you’ve got roommates waiting, a boyfriend, pepper spray.

None of it scares him off.

His name, you find out eventually, is Leon. No last name. Just Leon. You think it suits him—simple, unbreakable, like iron.

You Google him one night, when you’re sure he’s not just a figment of sleep-deprived delusion. And what you find almost makes you drop your phone.

Leon Myles. Heavyweight champion in multiple leagues. Mixed martial arts prodigy. A fighter who went undefeated for five years straight before vanishing off the radar. Wealthy. Dangerous. Worshipped.

What the hell is someone like him doing here?

And more importantly—what does he want with you?

Weeks pass. His obsession seeps into your routine like ink bleeding into paper.

You start to feel him before you see him. His presence looms. His shadow stretches long. He waits outside sometimes, even when his car—sleek and black and too expensive for this neighborhood—isn’t anywhere nearby. You catch him watching you through the diner’s window, arms crossed, expression unreadable.

Once, you swear you see him talking to your manager. The next day, your schedule changes. Fewer hours. Easier shifts. You ask why and get no answer.

You start finding gifts in your locker. Nothing huge—just little things. A necklace with your birthstone. A book you mentioned offhand. Lip balm in your favorite flavor, even though you’re sure you never told him what it was.

You don’t take them home. You leave them behind, thinking maybe he’ll get the hint.

He doesn’t.

Instead, the next time you pass his booth, he grabs your wrist.

Not hard. Just enough.

His fingers are rough—calloused, scarred—and they dwarf yours completely. Your breath catches.

“I saw you threw away the necklace.”

You try to pull your hand back. He doesn’t let go.

“I didn’t ask for it.”

“I know,” he says, and his eyes are darker than you’ve ever seen them. “But I wanted you to have it.”

You look away. “Why?”

Silence. Then, in a voice like smoke and steel:

“Because you belong to me.”

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