#and how they always manage to get him smiling again

[snail-day]

Just thinking about how pissed off idol! Satoru gets when he's at the signing table with the rest of the group and you, an audacious little thing, skip over him. Like, most fans at least stop to say hi to everyone, maybe blush a little or even ask for a quick selfie. Basic fan etiquette, right? But you? No, you walk past him every single time, eyes locked on Suguru like Satoru isn’t even there. As if Satoru isn't the most popular member of the group.

At first, he laughed it off. Shrugged. Maybe you were nervous. Maybe you didn’t want to look desperate in front of your bias.

But then you did it again. And again. Every damn fan event, every meet and greet. Always with that sweet smile for Suguru, a polite nod for Nanami, even a little blush for Sukuna, of all people, but nothing for him. Not even eye contact. Simply acting like he doesn’t even exist.

And that? That pisses him off more than anything.

He tells himself it’s nothing. That you’re just another fan. But then he finds your Instagram.

You follow every member - except him. You've posted shots of your wall lined with photocards. Suguru’s limited-edition album cover, Nanami’s keychain, Sukuna’s photocard. No sight of him. Not even once. Not even daring to read your captions.

Again, it shouldn't matter. You're just some nobody that can't even reach his level. He’s got millions of followers. Fans who scream his name. People who cry when he so much as waves.

But somehow you've invaded his mind. You’ve become an itch he can’t scratch. A face he searches for during performances. He’s memorized your posts, studied the filters you use, stared at your tagged location until his manager started asking questions.

So this time, when you line up at the meet and greet again - when you try to glide right past him with that same practiced indifference - he acts before he thinks.

Leans over the table, fingers gently brushing your wrist as you try to hand your album to Suguru.

“Hey, princess,” he murmurs, eyes hidden by tinted lenses, smile just a bit too wide. “Thought we had a thing going. No kiss for me?”

The cameras go wild.

Flash after flash, fans gasping, security moving in. Your stunned expression immortalized in high definition. Satoru doesn’t care. He’s grinning like a man who just won.

And when the headlines drop the next morning - “Gojo Satoru Gets Flirty With Fan - Who's the Mystery Girl?” he's ignoring requests from his managers to speak about the situation. Ignoring that call from the head of his company.

Instead, he can't help but laugh when he sees that you finally followed him. How cute.

[spyrothesquish-0006]

My grandfather had alzheimers and parkinsons. Two very horrible diseases that ate away at the strongest man I have ever known. All my life, he was there for me. He was at the hospital when I was born, in the NICU every day when I had to stay for a month. He always came when I called, and no matter how big I got, and no matter how many other grandkids were born over the years, I was still always "the baby".

I graduated high school and immediately moved in with my grandparents so that I could help take care of my pap. His mobility was getting worse, and his mind was going faster, so my grandmother needed all the help she could get. He needed all the help he could get.

I will always remember the day he passed. He got home from the hospital, and his breathing was shallow. I was at work. My manager at the time (who is now my spouse, and currently snoring next to me as I type this) sent me home when I got the texts from my grandmother that things weren't looking good. I made an 8 minute drive home from work in 4 minutes, praying to every single god I do and do not believe in that he would wait to go until I got home. I needed him to know that I would be okay.

I didn't know this until a few months after his death, but he had a moment of lucidity as I was driving home. He told my grandmother, "You know I love yinz."

"Yes, we know Bob. We love you too."

"And you know I love my baby."

"Your baby is on their way home right now to see you."

He smiled at that. I made it home, and I still remember seeing him in his bed. He looked over and saw me, and smiled again. He put his head back and rested his eyes after that, and I left the room to give him a moment of peace. My grandmother handed me a piece of paper from the hospital. It was the lines of his heartbeat from the monitor. I sat on my bed and held that paper, tracing the lines over and over, hoping that maybe that day would not be the end, but also hoping it would be, just so he wouldn't be suffering anymore. No more pain. No more hallucinations and nightmares.

He took his last breath 10 minutes later. I was the last thing he smiled about. I'm still learning how to function in a world without him, and I'm not sure I'll ever fully understand how it all works without him, but I feel a lot better with his heartbeat on my chest.

I can't wait to catch fire flies with him again.

RIP Pap.

tell me something soft

[aryaryxoxo]

#katsuki bakugou x neighbor!reader is giving grumpy and sunshine trope!!!

Prev

Imagine being the only one who gets to witness the King Explosion Murder being a total clumsy mess when he first entered your bedroom. You always visited his before this—like it was your second home. But how did you even manage to get his grumpy little ass to act like a well-behaved puppy around you?

By a simple bandage.

You, a 6-year-old tiny ball of sunshine, were just minding your business—throwing pebbles instead of coins into the empty park fountain, wishing for a new All Might coloring book. Then suddenly—you heard it.

Thud!

You turned around, curious, and spotted a blonde, spiky-haired kid on the ground. He was grunting, scowling at his scraped knee that was now gushing with blood like it had a personal vendetta. Drama much?

Concerned, you ran up to him and said, “Don’t touch it! You’ll make it worse!”

He muttered something rude like, “I’m fine, stupid!” but you didn’t mind. You just pouted, ignored his bad attitude, and gently pulled out your most prized possession—a sparkly All Might bandage from your tiny pocket.

With the brightest smile on your face, you handed it to him like it was some sacred offering.

“Here! Heals faster when All Might’s on it,” you chirped. And that’s how you won the heart of the angriest boy you met. 

By the time you finished sticking the bandage on for him, he was already pink in the face—and not from the wound.

You are shocked—and honestly kind of happy—to see him again when you and your family move into your new home.

He’s your new neighbor.

His mom—very sweet lady, actually, even with the matching scowl like his son—greeted your family with homemade food and warm smiles. Then she turned to her son and said with a sharp little squint: “Katsuki. Be nice to her. Make sure she doesn’t feel alone on her first day of school.”

He scowled. “Tch. Whatever.”

But the next day at school, he really took it to heart. All your worries about being the new kid, about sitting alone at lunch or not knowing anyone? Gone.

Because Bakugou Katsuki sat beside you like he’d been doing it forever—plopping his lunchbox down and muttering, “Tch. Everyone here’s annoying. You’re less annoying.”

Which, from him, was basically a love letter.

You were just about to wander around, maybe sit under a tree and daydream again, when he came stomping over—hands behind his back, scowl firmly in place, ears suspiciously pink.

Without a word, he held something out to you. An All Might coloring book.

Exactly like the one you were wishing for just last week, when you were tossing pebbles into that dry park fountain. 

“You can use my colors too… if you want.” He said, your eyes sparkled. “You have the glitter ones?!”

“Yea,” he muttered, ears turning pink. “Recess is almost over. If you wanna finish it, we can… do it at my house.”

And that was the beginning.

One coloring book afternoon at his house. You sitting cross-legged on his bedroom floor, brows furrowed in intense concentration, carefully coloring All Might’s cape like your life depended on not going out of the lines. And Bakugou? Sitting next to you, pretending not to stare.

His glitter crayons sat open between you two like a peace offering. Every time your hand reached out, he nudged the right color toward you—without even looking up. Like he knew what you’d need before you asked.

He’d never say it, but he thought it was kind of cool. How serious you got when coloring. How your nose scrunched a little when you were focused.

His mom, peeking in to call you both for snacks, froze.

Because there was her son—the same boy who used to scream at the neighbor kids for stepping on his side of the sidewalk—now sitting quietly, watching you, with the softest, most secret smile on his face.

He didn’t even notice she had her phone out.

Click.

She took a picture.

After that day, his mom got very used to seeing you around. Like clockwork.

At first, she’d greet you at the door with a smile and snacks. But after the fifth… maybe seventh coloring session, she waved her hand and said, “You don’t need to ring the doorbell anymore, sweetie. Just come right in. He’s in his room.”

Bakugou shouted from upstairs, “DON’T JUST TELL PEOPLE THAT—!!” You giggled. And kept visiting anyway.

One coloring session turned into building a volcano project together in middle school. (“Don’t mess up the lava part, dumbass.” “I’m not, Katsuki! You’re the one holding it sideways!”)

That turned into movie nights on weekends, where he claimed he “wasn’t crying, it’s just allergies” during the sad scenes and would immediately throw popcorn at you if you stared for too long.

Eventually, it became walking home from high school side by side.

Him picking you up from your school, still wearing his slightly unkept U.A. uniform, your backpack slung lazily over his shoulder, the both of you walking close—your hands brushing against each other with every step.

Now, the two of you stood in front of your house.

“If you’re free tomorrow afternoon… we could play Mario Kart,” he muttered, handing you your backpack like it wasn’t a big deal.

“Sure!” you beamed.

He watched as you gave him your usual goodbye—then stood there quietly until the door shut behind you.

Bakugou pulled out his phone, unlocking it with one hand. A new notification from the Class 1-A group chat popped up.

Denki: I’m TELLING YOU that man has a girlfriend.

He rolled his eyes. All because those three idiots couldn’t shut their mouths and spread it in the entire class what happened when they visited. And now, the entire class wouldn’t shut up. 

He rolled his eyes and locked his phone.

Then paused.

He turned it back on and stared at his wallpaper.

It was you and him on the floor, coloring the All Might book.

taglist: @magicalrainbowfish @vnstennis @g-cf2020 @kitwantsseconds @eliankm @xxchaosjojoxx @notellaxx @lipstainedgemini

a/n: if you have any ideas for this pairing, please send it in my inbox (˶˃⤙˂˶)

[kenntoria]

synopsis ୭ ˚. ᵎᵎ at a family dinner, nanami watches you cradle a baby—hesitant at first, then heartbreakingly gentle—and sees a future he’ll never rush, but quietly dreams of.

tori’s notes ᝰ.ᐟ you dream of that and i’ll dream of you nanamin

the thing about nanami is that he never asks you for more than you’re willing to give.

he never rushes you. not when it came to your relationship. not when you both moved in together. not when the question of marriage hovered between you like an unanswered prayer. and especially not when the topic of children entered the conversation, clumsy and tentative.

not that you ever spoke about it directly.

you weren’t against it, not exactly. but the idea of a child—of diapers and crying and the eternal pressure to be good at something you’d never tried before—was terrifying. there was too much responsibility in the softness of a baby’s head, the fragility of a tiny body. sometimes you’d joke about how you’d probably drop one, or that kids hated you, or that the thought of giving birth was horrifying. and nanami never laughed at you. never called you dramatic. he just nodded, like he understood.

and he did. god, he did.

but he also noticed things.

like the way your eyes lingered when you saw a baby bundled in a stroller. or how you’d go quiet when you saw a toddler waddling with a cookie in each hand. he noticed the way you softened just a little more when children were near—not enough for anyone else to see, but enough that he caught it, caught you, staring before you realized and blinked away like you’d been caught daydreaming.

and you always assumed he didn’t notice. but of course nanami did. nanami noticed everything when it came to you.

that’s why it hits him a little harder than expected when it finally happens.

you’re at one of his family dinners—something warm and rowdy, his relatives laughing too loud and bringing too many dishes. you’re dressed in a little sundress he likes, sipping juice and picking at a plate of fruit, eyes gentle and distant as the evening spins on around you.

and then his cousin, chaotic and overwhelmed, clutches her baby girl to her chest and says your name, breathless.

“can you hold her for a sec? i need to get the cake from the car—i’ll be quick!”

before you can answer, the baby is placed in your arms. warm. soft. gurgling with laughter like the world is nothing but good things.

and nanami watches you freeze.

“uh,” you manage to croak out.

it’s not even a second. just a stutter in your body. your arms hold the baby awkwardly at first, like you’re cradling a bomb you don’t know how to defuse. your brows pinch in confusion. and then—

your arms shift. your body curls inward slightly. and something in your face melts like wax in the sun. the baby touches your face with tiny, chubby fingers, and you giggle—quiet, shocked at yourself, like you hadn’t expected to enjoy the weight of a child in your arms.

and nanami watches you pull her closer. presses your cheek to her soft hair. the curve of your mouth so gentle, so awestruck, that he forgets how to breathe.

the room goes quiet in his head. nothing else exists except the sight of you holding that baby. except the sudden, selfish ache in his chest as his mind races with the what-ifs.

what if it was your baby?

what if you were holding the child you made together?

what if that softness on your face was for a little girl with his eyes and your smile?

he’s still staring when you finally glance up. eyes searching the room for him—and when you catch his gaze, you blink, visibly flustered. your face flushes. you look down at the baby again and then back up at him, almost shy.

nanami smiles. it splits his face slowly, creases the corner of his eyes, lights something deep behind them. he crosses the room slowly, like something sacred is happening and he doesn’t want to disturb it.

“hey,” he murmurs, voice low and fond, crouching slightly to meet your eyes. “you okay?”

you nod quickly, like you’re trying to convince yourself more than him.

“you’re good with her,” he leans in, placing a kiss on your shoulder.

“i—no, i’m not. she’s just… quiet. she’s not scary like the others.” you look down, like you are still trying to shake it off.

but the baby coos again, snug against your chest, and nanami swears he’d never seen anything more precious than the way you blink down at her like you aren’t sure what to do with the warmth blooming in your chest.

“you look good with her.”

your eyes widen. “don’t say that.”

“why not?” he says, smile lingering. “it’s true, sweetheart.”

you glance down at the baby, then back at him. “don’t get ideas, kento.”

he lifts his hands innocently, even as his heart burns quietly with the image of you both in a home of your own, years from now, with a baby that shares both your blood and names.

“no ideas,” he says. “just… enjoying the view.”

you roll your eyes, but you don’t hand the baby back. you don’t push him away when he presses a lingering kiss to your temple, and he doesn’t say anything when he notices you swaying slightly—instinctively rocking the baby in your arms.

and maybe you’ll talk about it one day.

and maybe you won’t.

but for now, he’s content to let this moment exist as it is: quiet, perfect, and full of a future that doesn’t need to be rushed.

[eremikayearner]

sweet tears ㅤ♡ྀི itoshi rin

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ in which, you overstimulate your sweet n’ pretty boyfriend till he cries.

╰┈➤ dacryphilia, overstimulation, light bondage (nothing too crazy), handjob, sub!rin ‹𝟹

itoshi rin never cries. that’s what you had believed once at least. that’s what anyone who knew him believed. your boyfriend was known for his cold gazes, harsh insults and getting into arguments that more often than not became full fledged fights. with you, he was softer, sweeter, vulnerable, and even you had believed he never cried.

yet here he was. all soft ruffled dark hair, pretty teary teal eyes, gorgeous sculpted body trembling and his pretty cock thrusting up into your hand. on his knees, his powerful thighs opened for you and his wrists tied behind his back, itoshi rin was entirely at your mercy.

“n-no more.” he managed to say, his voice wavering and his lower lip wobbling. oh, he was just so sweet like this. with his long dark lashes wet with the promise of tears, eyebrows drawn together and stark teal eyes reflecting his torturer : you.

poor, rin. he really was too sweet for you.

you watched as rin continued to thrust up into your cum coated hand as another whimper was dragged out of his mouth. your eyes lingered on the glistening sheen of saliva and cum coating his milky white thighs. then your eyes lifted to the mess of his abs — his own cum dripping down the defined muscle in thick globs and dripping down toward the absolute filthy frothy mess of his cock. his angry red tip pushed through the makeshift cunt of your hand, strings of his cum following his dick with every slow thrust of his hips, further spilling his release down your cum coated hand to your wrist.

it was filthy, disgusting and utterly pathetic. yet he couldn’t pull his eyes away from the tantalizing sight in front of him — the easy slip of his cock in and out of your hand. how badly he wished for it to be your perfect little cunt instead. his to fill and fuck. the painful ache in his cock that nearly overrode his relentless pleasure shot down his body like lightning — begging him to stop ; but rin could not stop the continuous thrust of his hips into your hand.

you lifted your eyes to watch as his lips parted once again and your hand tightened on his length, a moan escaping his mouth before he could even stop it.

“oh, rin.” you simpered, turning alluring eyes on your poor sweet boy. he looked at you with glassy teal eyes as he closed his mouth to swallow back his noises. your thumb brushed over his overly sensitive tip and his entire body flexed as he shifted his cock up into your hand. the sound you pulled out of his throat was so sweet, so angelic, so rin — you couldn’t help but smile. you cocked your head to the side, chasing his eyes as he looked down at the mess he’d made. “what would your teammates think if they saw you like this?”

his head snapped up to meet your gaze before your hand drifted up and down the length of his messy cock at a cruel pace.

he didn’t even know how many times he had cum already. all coherent thoughts had left his mind the moment your fingers had touched him. he couldn’t think. couldn’t breathe. couldn’t feel anything but this intense euphoria, delicious pain and you. always you.

he was undeniably yours. there was no other person who could possibly have him like this. no other person who could have him at all. only you.

his groans, whimpers, and moans were all you could hear as he gasped out incoherent and broken words.

you brought your second hand to his thigh, your fingers rubbing against the smooth slick skin soothingly as his gasps nearly became sobs.

“please.” he whined, biceps flexing against his binds while his eyes screwed shut. “i can’t. s’too much.” his words were so sweet, so vulnerable, so cute, you melted completely.

your eyes softened on the chaos of the boy in front of you — under your spell.

“you’re so sweet, rin.” you murmured, as a particularly loud noise left his lips — a cross between a sob, a moan and a whine. he finally met your eyes, tears threatening to spill over his waterline as he looked at you with those pretty eyes of his. he followed your gaze to the filthy mess of his cock in your heavenly grip. “look how this pretty cock of yours keeps cumming for me.” you looked up and he followed you once more, clenching his jaw as another whimper was drawn out of him. and fuck you, he thinks. fuck you for sitting here so pretty and fucking him with your fist so perfectly. and fuck you for coaxing him to tumble into euphoric oblivion once again. “give me one more, pretty boy. i know you can.”

he shook his head, clenching his jaw as another whine was ripped from his throat. he gasped out, “i can’t.”

“you can.” your words were better than any drugs the world could offer. addictive and intoxicating.

it hurt. it hurt so fucking bad. his sweat slicked body thrummed with pain as bliss coursed through his veins and muddled his brain. but he didn’t stop. he didn’t stop thrusting into your hand. he didn’t stop the obscene sounds that left his mouth. he didn’t stop the unwavering need to make you proud.

“keep going, rin. make a mess, sweet boy.”

your words were bewitching. one look into your eyes and your gorgeous face that he loved with the entirety of his heart and soul was all he needed.

“oh, f-fuck.” his thrusts into your hand quickened as your thumb continued to brush over his oh so sensitive tip and his vision blurred. “fuck, fuck, fuck.” he gasped out as pleasure tore through his entire body and broke him apart.

rin fell apart. his body shook as he gasped for air and his voice could only produce the sounds of broken whimpers, moans and groans as he rode out his high and continued thrusting into your hand.

your watched in fascination as hot spurts of his cum landed all over his abs and dribbled down your sticky white hand.

and finally, the tears fell. one by one, hot tears fell down his cheeks as rin lost his voice to gasping sobs, whimpers, moans and groans. his body shook as his forehead fell into the crook of your neck as he babbled through tears “feels so good”, gratitude and broken sobs of your name.

you whispered sweet, tender praises into his ear as he continued to fall apart in your arms, your hand snaked over the muscles of his back and finally twined into his hair.

he was so sweet. your sweet boy.

itoshi rin doesn’t cry. not unless he’s falling irrevocably and inexplicably apart in your arms.

[mononijikayu]

thinking about how ryomen sukuna husband, marin the dog's dad, national athelete, pro-volleyball player is now stuck in this conundrum of a situation.

if he was being honest, he didn't even know how the national japanese team social media manager got him to do this. maybe it was because they bribed him with his favorite protein shake. maybe it was because they promised to stop bugging him.

but if he admit that they were the things that got him, it would be a lie. no, it was all the hd pictures of you from all the previous games these past season.

he didn't know they had existed since now. but because they had them, he had to get it. he had to get those really pretty pictures of you and keep it for only him.

ryomen sukuna was already regretting saying yes to the lie detector segment. he’d done interviews before for everything and not once has he ever been nervous.

after games, in locker rooms, on buses that smelled like sweat and glory. even when he was exhausted and ragged in the bones and just wanted to go home and sleep hugging you, he'd do it. even if it was a hassle.

but this situation was different. he was terrified. why shouldn't he be terrified? this was a whole different thing and people just knew it. everything about this was not something he was used to.

this was wires, blinking lights, a host who smiled like he knew too much, and a chair that felt suspiciously like it belonged in an interrogation room.

still, he looked good and cool.

sleeves rolled just enough.

the usual cocky slouch.

he had to fake it till he made it.

“all set?” the the social media manager asked, grinning.

sukuna shrugged. “unless this thing shocks me when i lie, yeah.”

they started easy. and he liked that. is your hair naturally pink? no. (duh.) do you think you’re the best player on the national team? yes. (double duh.)

each answer got a soft, obedient beep. truth. he was cruising. smooth. untouchable. until the host pulled a new card. this one looked different. evil, even. ryomen sukuna could sense it. he could feel it in his bones.

“sukuna-san, here's your next question.” the social media manager said slowly, way too pleased with himself, “is it true that when you were newly eighteen, you and your now-wife, [name]-san, had a pregnancy scare… and her dad almost murdered you for it?”

sukuna blinked. once. twice. “…i’m sorry. what?”

someone behind the camera snorted. sukuna’s eyes narrowed. and then, he heard it. he could feel his eye twitch all the sudden. your laugh. soft, familiar, and 100% guilty.

his jaw dropped. “oh my god. you’re here.”

you didn’t even try to deny it at all. i mean, this was the first time in a long while you'd gotten to be ridiculous. especially now that you've come back to work and had your hectic schedule again.

you always took the opportunity when it was offered. so, you sat somewhere off to the side and let yourself be silly. you laughed once again when you heard him curse.

he groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “you really sent that in? seriously?”

the host was trying very hard not to lose it.

“answer the question, sukuna-san!"

he sighed. long-suffering. dramatic.

“…fine. yeah. it’s true.”

beep. truth.

and just like that, the flashback hit him like a football to the face. it happend when you were teenagers, last year of high school. nothing even happened back then. it was just hanging out most of the time.

well, there was the occassional making out. but even when it went somewhere, you both stopped. and even when you wanted to, sukuna was the one to stop it all.

after all, he didn't want to ruin your future. you wanted to be an astrophysicist. you had a dream and he wanted you to focus on that. as much as he focused on volleyball.

so that day, it was all too different. and he could feel it in the air. you were on his massive bed, staring at your phone like it owed you an explanation.

sukuna walked in, unwrapping a sandwich, and you just… said it. “my love, i’m ten days late.”

he dropped the sandwich. “what do you mean, ten days late?”

“i mean what i said, my love. i'm late.” you said calmly, yawning in between. “ten. days. late. no period. no signs. my uterus is a cryptid.”

sukuna looked like he aged ten years on the spot. "w-what do you mean? w-we.... we didn't do anything just yet—"

"well i'm not sure!" you whispered to him. "i mean, when on my birthday, we both went and drank together quite a bit and—"

"yeah but i don't remember anything happening!" he says, choking as his red turned flushed. he stops and then his eyes go wide. "wait....i blacked out right?"

"yeah and maybe......" you hide your face in your hands, feeling like you were going to cry.

“okay. okay. don’t panic.” he said, immediately panicking. “we’ll go to a clinic. or a pharmacy. or maybe time travel. can we still time travel?”

you were surprisingly calm, at least from the standards usually had on pregnancy reactions. ryomen sukuna, on the other hand, looked like he was about to faint at the mere thought of diapers and daycare. but the worst part wasn’t the scare.

it was doing the impossible. it was telling your dad about everything. your ex-military, early-rising,suspicious-of-every-boy-on-earth dad, without him getting mad.

you told him while your poor unfortunate boyfriend was in the house. well, he thought that it was appropriate. even if he was shitting himself.

he was sitting politely in the living room with a mug of tea when you broke the news. your dad turned and just stared at sukuna. no yelling. no questions.

just pure, soul-piercing silence. for five whole minutes. ryomen sukuna sat frozen, gripping the mug like it was a grenade. it might be one of the worst days of his life.

you tried to ease the tension. “it’s probably just stress! we’re being responsible! we’re not even sure—”

your dad stood up. slowly. like an ancient god rising to smite. sukuna stood too. immediately. like his legs were possessed. your boyfriend, the former troublemaker and fist slammer, looked scared for the first time in his life.

“s-sir, respectfully, we're not....we're not even sure.” he blurted, voice cracking, “but i can swear to you that i respect your daughter. i-i swear....i'm going to take responsibility."

you covered your face all througout. ryomen sukuna, like years before, started mumbling about how from the very beginning, he's willing to stand up for you and be a father if you were pregnant. it was quite a thing.

in the end, you had nothing to worry about. after you took multiple tests, you were not pregnant. and a few days later, sukuna remembered what happened (likely out of fear of your father) and told you that you did not in fact make love.

back in the studio, ryomen sukuna shook his head like he was still recovering. he sighed as he looked at you. you were smiling at him giving him a thumbs up.

“i had nightmares about that stare for months!” he said. “every time her dad looked at me when i came by the house, i thought he was imagining my funeral arrangements.”

you laughed again off-camera, totally unapologetic. you were really lucky you were cute. he really couldn't get mad. not at you. not even once. he purses his lips.

“and the kicker?” sukuna said, leaning forward with a dry laugh. “she wasn’t even pregnant! just exam week stress. i almost died for nothing.”

he pointed toward where you were standing. “you’re evil.”

beep. truth.

a little while later, ryomen sukuna did get the hd pictures of you in a real big envelope. later, it was added to the pictures of you in his office. and all of that made him sigh, more fondly than ever before. life was good.

"i wonder what it would look like...." he mused to himself. "when we have kids too....."

"my love, dinner's ready!"

he smiles. "i'm coming!"

[sevsevteen]

tw: implied harassment (non-graphic)

--

The ride back to the dorm was quiet.

Too quiet for someone who should’ve been excited - new solo lines, progress on the album, another step forward into Seventeen's dream. You clutched your bag tighter in the van’s back seat, headphones on, but nothing playing. Your fingers were trembling slightly.

Maybe you were overthinking it. Maybe he didn’t mean it like that. Maybe you imagined the pause… the way his hand lingered when it 'accidentally' touched your thighs. The way he leaned too close. The way his fingers brushed your ear to tuck a loose strand behind.

Your mind repeated the scene again and again like a glitching loop. Each time you tried to rewrite it. Minimize it. Fix it so it felt less wrong.

He was a senior producer. Respected in the industry. “Famous for mentoring rookies.” The company even called you lucky to get private time with him. And he smiled the whole time - you didn’t want to seem ungrateful.

And yet.

Your stomach had dropped when you saw him reaching for you again, that low voice saying, “You’re tense. You should learn to relax more. You’d be even prettier if you smiled.”

You don’t even remember what you said in response. Just that you left as fast as you could without running right after recording ended.

.

When you entered the dorm, the usual buzz of voices and background music filled your ears - a contrast to the quiet storm inside your chest.

“You’re back,” Dino called from the couch.

“You hungry?” Mingyu offered, walking past with a bowl of ramyeon.

“Recording go okay? Sorry I couldn't be there.” Woozi asked gently, spinning around from the couch.

You nodded, voice too soft. “Yeah. Just tired.”

But the members knew something was off. You didn’t meet anyone’s eyes. Your smile was plastic - the kind the members always spotted fake, no matter how convincing it looked.

Joshua noticed it first, sitting up straighter. Then Seungcheol exchanged a look with Jeonghan, the unspoken message clear between them. Something had happened.

You retreated to your room quickly. Too quickly.

A few minutes passed before a knock sounded softly at the door.

“Can I come in?” It was Cheol.

You hummed.

He stepped in, careful, calm, like approaching a skittish animal - not because you were fragile, but because he respected your silence.

He didn’t ask anything at first. Just sat down beside you on the bed, waiting.

You folded in on yourself slowly, picking at the sleeve of your sweatshirt. “It was fine. The recording.”

Seungcheol nodded.

“But?” he said gently.

You hesitated. Then your voice cracked - barely audible. “It felt weird.”

His jaw tightened. “Weird, how?”

Your throat worked. “He… touched my hair. Said it was in my face. Then his hand bumped into my thighs, but didn’t really move away. It-" You had to take a deep breath. “Maybe I’m just making it up.”

“You’re not,” Seungcheol said instantly.

Your eyes welled. “But what if I misunderstood?”

He shook his head. “Even if it wasn’t intentional - the moment it made you uncomfortable, it mattered.”

Your tears broke free at that. No one had said that to your before. Not the staff, not the manager on the phone, not even yourself. Not until now.

“I didn’t know how to react,” you whispered.

“You don’t need to. Not alone.” Seungcheol looked at you firmly. “We’ll talk to the company. You’re not doing another solo session with him, ever.”

The next thing you knew, you were surrounded - Jun slipping in quietly to sit beside your other side, Seungkwan sat cross-legged on the floor, rubbing circles on the back of your hand. Dino leaned on the doorframe, eyes watery but jaw set like steel.

They didn’t bombard you with questions.

They just stayed.

Until the heaviness in your chest started to lift - not because the incident was gone, but because now… you weren’t alone in holding it.

--

[gf2bellamy]

how do you think dad spencer would deal with all his hygiene phobias with a kid ?? personally picturing him putting on a brave face and telling himself its fine when his daughter pulls on her rain boots and asks him to jump in muddy puddles with her (but internally hes freaking out and planning to spend like 2 hours in the shower afterwards)

this kind of turned into a drabble. i love girldad!spencer too much

spencer definitely puts on a brave face.

that’s his instinct especially around his daughter. and he knows, logically, that dirt isn’t always dangerous. he knows germs are part of life.

but none of that knowledge prepares him for the moment his daughter tugs on his hand and points with excitement at a huge puddle on the sidewalk.

“daddy, let’s jump!”

his brain short-circuits. bacteria. parasites. the idea of her catching a cold. he bites the inside of his cheek, hard and takes a breath. at first, his concern is completely about her. he kneels down, trying to redirect.

“hey, honey, look over there. that’s a robin’s nest, see the bird?”

but she’s not even looking. her eyes are still locked on that brown puddle. he hesitates, then sighs and lets go of her hand.

“okay. just be careful,” he manages.

she squeals in delight and jump into the puddle. spencer flinches when a drop of muddy water lands directly on his pants. he tries not to show it. smiles through clenched teeth.

his stomach is doing somersaults, but her laughter is worth it. she’s happy. she’s safe. that’s what matters.

but then she turns. “daddy, come on! jump with me!”

his heart actually stops. “oh, uh—no, that’s okay, you go ahead, i'm just gonna watch—”

“daddy,” she says again, tugging at his hand, bottom lip poking out in a pout that’s both manipulative and completely innocent. she's stubborn just like him.

he swallows hard. internally he’s screaming. crying. calculating the bacteria count per square inch of street water.

but she’s smiling at him like he hung the moon. so he steps forward.

one boot, then the other, and then he jumps. a weak little hop, barely a splash. but it counts. she laughs so hard she almost falls over.

she grabs his hand and demands they do it again. and again. and again.

and for a while his daughter's giggles drown out the panic. he still hates how wet his socks feel. still cringes every time the cold water soaks up higher on his pants.

but he’s laughing now, too. just a little.

by the time they get home, his daughter is yawning and dragging her boots. as soon as they walk inside and he sees the mud streaked across his legs, that’s when the reality slams back in.

“okay, bath time,” he says quickly, voice pitched high. “for me. i mean.”

before you can even ask him if he had fun, he’s gone, practically sprinting to the bathroom, peeling off clothes on the way. you call after him, but all you get is a shouted, “i’m okay! i’m okay!” followed by the sound of the shower on full blast.

you blink, confused until you look down and see the trail of wet footprints and two soaked, dirty boots. your daughter is grinning up at you, soaked from the knees down, her curls frizzy from the rain.

“what did you do to daddy?” you ask, laughing softly as you kneel to unzip her coat.

“he jumped in the puddles with me,” she says proudly. “he was so good at it!”

you smile, heart warm. “i’m sure he was.”

meanwhile, in the bathroom, spencer is scrubbing like a man possessed. there are three different soaps in rotation. he’s mentally cataloging every spot where water hit him.there’s a little voice in his head whispering that he’ll probably need to disinfect his shoes and maybe even the doorknob.

but underneath all the panic, there’s a flicker of joy.

because despite the dirt and the germs, he made his daughter laugh. and he’ll do it again tomorrow if she asks.

[revelboo]

https://www.tiktok.com/t/ZTjcT2dWb/

I don't know if anyone sent you this yet but anytime you post anything about sparkling this is all I imagine. I also like to think the sparkling come out small like this and then later get a huge growth spurt during there adolescence!

Ahhhh! I haven’t watched the Brave series in forever, but yeah, they’re tiny to begin with

Flight

Megatron x Reader

• ‘Ready?’ You hear Megatron ask from the main area of the habsuite as you work on dinner for yourself, your oldest son handing you veggies to chop one at a time, his little face serious. And his head turns as he reaches to tug at your shirt, staring in the direction of Megatron and your daughter. Wait, is Megatron counting down? You only left those two alone for about ten minutes, but you know that’s more than enough time. Suddenly worried, you duck out of your dollhouse habsuite and your son jumps down from his stool to follow. And you see Megs bend, your daughter held cradled on her belly in his palms right as he tosses her in the air. “Megatron!”

• Wincing at your horrified yell as his daughter goes air born, turbines screaming, little wings flared. And she’s giggling, thrusters kicking on to spin her in the air, little arms windmilling and he races after her. Why isn’t she flying? Aren’t Seekers supposed to know how to fly? Apparently not. Diving, paint scraping the floor as he throws his cupped hands out and catches her. “Again! Again, Sire!” She shrieks as he stares at her in horror.

• Storming over as your son grabs your hand and follows, you glare at Megatron. Who at least has the decency to look guilty as your daughter demands to be thrown again, crowing that she was flying. Inhaling so you don’t just scream at him in front of two of your kids, you force a smile as your daughter asks if you saw her fly. “I saw,” you grind out as your oldest son presses his face against your leg, picking up on your mood and you smooth a hand against his helm. “I thought Star said she wasn’t ready to fly.”

• How can one tiny organic manage to be so intimidating? Probably because that look promises that he’s not touching you for a while. “Just playing. No harm done,” he growls, trying to pretend his spark didn’t constrict in fear when she’d fallen instead of flying. Had thought Starscream was just being dramatic. Seekers fly. He’d just assumed she’d know how since she’s been figuring out her turbines and thrusters. Cupping his hands around her squirming warmth, he presses his face against her, his servos tending. He’d just always assumed it was something flight capable mechs knew from the get go. ‘I wanna to fly again,’ she whines, grabbing one of his servos in both hands and pulling, little wings flicking.

• ‘Maybe later, little spark,’ Megatron soothes and her wings flare out at being told no. “Why don’t you two go find the twins and we can have dinner?” You ask. Splaying a hand against your son’s back to push him toward his sister, you almost laugh at the comically betrayed look he turns your way before his sister grabs his hand and drags him after. And you smile sweetly up at Megatron. “Remember when I told you about being banished to the couch for your sins?” You ask and his optics narrow. “Well, now you get to learn about doghouses.”

[fuctacles]

[start here]

“What do you mean you forgot?!”

Eddie flails his hands wildly.

“I just did!” he yells back.

“What the fuck, Eddie?!”

“Language!” Claudia Henderson pipes up from somewhere in the house. Turns out, she could be just as loud as her son when she wanted, but that’s a given when you have to rise him by yourself.

“Sorry!” Dustin yells back. And then, after a thoughtful frown in his friend’s direction, yells again, not breaking eye contact: “Can Eddie stay the night?!”

“What?!” Eddie hisses through his teeth.

“Sure!” His mom’s answer is immediate. “As long as his uncle knows!”

Ms. Claudia knew he was living with his uncle? How much has their sons shared about him? Has he spilled unknowingly?

“Of course!”

Eddie was for now the only person maintaining a reasonable volume. He turned his whisper-hiss on Dustin again.

“I can’t just impose on your house like that, Henderson!”

“You’re not imposing, mom said it's okay.”

Eddie throws his hands in the air. As always, Dustin was right in the most infuriating way.

“You’ll stay over until you finish the paper.”

“I don’t need babysitting to do my work!”

“You kind of do,” his friend points out, right yet again. “And here you won’t get distracted with your guitar or campaign.”

“Do you think it’s all I do?” Eddie bristles, at which Dustin waves his hand dismissively. 

“Or a book, or a nap, or whatever gross shit you ‘almost adults’ get up to.” He makes a face, as apparently talking about jerking off is below him.

“A nap sounds great, to be honest…” he hums thoughtfully, his mind zeroing in on its pick. Dustin huffs. 

“Well, write an outline and we can discuss a nap.”

Eddie did not expect being held hostage in Henderson’s house to write a paper, on a weekday night no less, but here he was. He’s been in worse predicaments, that’s for sure, considering this cell had a radio, a soft couch, and snacks. And as much hot tea as he can stomach, though Claudia Henderson might be underestimating his love for a good earl gray blend.

The afternoon goes more or less as usual, he and Dustin do their homework in the boy’s bedroom, and then Eddie gets dragged into a family dinner. But instead of finishing up or going home, he’s being approached by Mrs. Henderson holding a huge bundle of spare bedding.

“Is the couch okay? Steve got the guest bedroom, but if you ask nicely, he’d probably switch with you.”

Eddie is shaking his head before she finishes talking, but Dustin is first actually to speak up.

“Can’t he sleep here?”

His mom frowns.

“This isn’t a sleepover. Your curfew still applies.”

“But!--!”

“No buts! Eddie, sweetie.” She turns to the older boy again. “I’ll leave the bedding on the couch, you can sleep there or talk it out with Steve when he comes back.”

“Thank you.” He smiles at her, knowing he won’t be talking with the guy.

Dustin keeps trying to argue, so she adds:

“Dusty’s curfew is at 10 and don’t let him tell you otherwise.”

“I’ll tuck him in myself, madam.”

“Traitors! Both of you!”

When the outline is done, his belly full of toast and the outside properly dark, Eddie finds himself alone in the living room. Claudia advised him to help himself to the kitchen if he got hungry and not to stay up too late. She also told him Steve had a closing shift that day and always drives his friend home, but should be back soon as well.

Eddie manages to write the beginning of his stupid essay before he hears the keys jingle at the front door. He’s itching to look up and seek out Steve, but only does so when he hears him stop by the doorway. He’s surprised to see him but quickly schools his expression into an easy smile.

“Eddie! Hi!”

“Hi.” Eddie gives him a small wave.

“Staying over?” Steve walks in, eyeing the bedding next to him.

“Yeah.” He nods and points at the notebook in front of him. “Gotta finish an essay for tomorrow.”

“Uh, good luck.” Steve winces. “Want something to eat? Drink?” He points towards the kitchen, where he’s headed. Eddie shakes his head.

“I’m good, thanks.”

He’s written three sentences by the time Steve leaves the kitchen and walks towards the bathroom. The sound of a running shower is incredibly distracting. He can picture a small waterfall, deep in the forest and glistening in the golden green sunbeams. Close by is a clearing, created by countless adventurers stopping by to refresh before continuing their journey. They’d strip naked, men and women alike, fighters and mages, dipping in the chilly water to clean off the dirt of the road, the sweat from fighting off petty criminals. The water would be just deep enough to tease at the curve of his ass, lapping against the skin and mocking any bystanders for their solid form, making them wish they could liquify too and slip over the rippling muscles, trace the dips and—

Bad Eddie!

He blinks so rapidly that he gets dizzy, but the paper in front of him becomes visible again. The shower is still running and he reminds himself he’s not into jocks. He’s not into his friends’ siblings, not into whatever Steve Henderson is, no matter how objectively attractive.

He writes another two sentences by the time the bathroom door opens and he makes a point of not looking up. The smell of coconut walks by and he focuses on the tip of his pen. He hears the fridge door open and the steps reach his spot by the couch again.

“Beer?”

The water still clings to the weary adventurer, dripping from his hair. He has no shame, no place for it in the life he leads, not with a body like that. There’s a towel strewn around his shoulders and he was nice enough to put on underwear. He’s holding two cans of chilled beer, and all Eddie can say is:

“Please.”

He’s not expecting him to sit down next to him, smelling of coconut and damp skin, reddened from hot water and scrubbing it with a towel.

“Cherish it, we’re drinking half of my weekly allowance.”

“You have a beer allowance?” Eddie gapes at him and Steve just nods, like it’s normal.

“I’m not 21 yet but Claudia knows I’ve been drinking already anyway. So as long as I’m doing it safely and out of Dustin’s eyesight, she’s okay with it. We share wine sometimes.”

"That's nice." Eddie smiles, cracking his can open. "Wayne doesn't monitor my alcohol intake, but it's not like I'm partying much. I just drink with him or with my band sometimes." He shrugs and takes a sip. It's a more expensive brand than he's used to but all beer tastes the same to him anyway.  

"Wayne is your uncle, right?" Steve asks, lowering his own can.

Eddie suddenly realizes it's nice to be remembered as something more than a freak or a Satanist. He gulps down the bitter liquid.

"Uh, yeah. I live with him. Been since I started middle school."

Steve nods thoughtfully, staring at the wall. For reasons he doesn't dare to name, Eddie wishes his eyes were on him instead. 

"Your band is uh, something Coffin? Sorry, I don't remember." He turns towards him and smiles sheepishly and Eddie is taking it all back, take these dark brown eyes away from his face immediately. Steve knows half of his band's name? Be still his traitorous heart!

"Corroded Coffin," he chokes out. 

Steve snaps his fingers.

"That's it! You guys were at the talent show a couple of years back, right?"

Be still, be still, be still. 

"Yeah," he manages. "I'm surprised you remember."

Steve chuckles, but it's not a pleasant one. Eddie prepares himself to be ripped into shreds. Again. He should be used to that by this point, shouldn't he? But his ego is as easily bruised as it is big. 

"How could I not? The biggest disaster Hawkins middle has seen in years."

Eddie winces. It was expected and it still hurt. At least his not-crush could finally go further into the 'not; category. 

Bust Steve had to open his stupid mouth again. 

"It was stupid, in my opinion. You guys are clearly talented, and the music you play shouldn't matter. Most people don't like metal--hell, I don't like metal." He slaps his hand onto his bare chest, making Eddie nod, because yes, he's listening, he's paying attention, and he is looking at his hairy pecs, thank you. "But it was a talent show, judges should be more objective." He slumps into the back of the couch. "You were great on the guitar, I've never heard anyone play like that. I was surprised you could sing too," he says, rolling his head to the side to look at Eddie, who chuckles nervously.

"Why, do I not look like I have an angelic voice?" he asks, tilting his head. 

Steve shakes his head, making a lazy motion against the couch cushion. The closing shift and the beer seem to be getting to him. 

"I guess I wasn't expecting you to be so..." He tilts his head to the side and rolls it back, considering his thoughts and how to voice them out. "Multifaceted?" he offers hesitantly like it's not a word he uses often. Eddie can relate. "I had heard the music teacher talk about your ear, how you can pick up any song insanely fast. I know your English essays get praised, and I know you're unafraid to be yourself, against all odds. It's something I couldn't do..." he trails off, suddenly looking sadder than Eddie knew how to deal with. But to his relief, Steve shakes his head to get back on track. "I just wasn't expecting you to have a nice voice like that. In Hellfire, too. It's like you're taking on a completely new persona. It sounds..." He hesitates before his next words." Freeing." He decides, nodding minutely to himself. "Like you can just tap into another dimension, a nice one," he presses for some reason. "And just live it out. Like for a moment, you're becoming a different person."

Eddie considers him. The thoughtful look on his face that he's still not qualified to deal with. 

"What's wrong with you?" he asks and he hopes against all hope that it doesn't come off condescending. He's genuinely curious, hell, genuinely worried. What makes someone like Steve--America's poster boy, attractive and athletic--think this way?

Steve rolls his head towards him again and his smile is everything but joyful.

"I'm not sure," he admits. "The adult life is more than I've bargained for, I guess." He shrugs, but Eddie knows it's the easy, dismissive answer. And he feels like he needs to get to the bottom of this, his essay be damned. Happily.

"You live with Ms. Henderson, though. You don't have to be an adult-adult," he points out and waits, hoping he's not prying too much.

"Yeah, but..." Steve seems to be collapsing in on himself. "A lot has happened," he says as much as Eddie knows at this point. "And I've been feeling so small against the world, against the universe..."

Eddie's surprised at the mention of the whole universe, but it's not like he hasn't been thinking about it too, so he nods encouragingly. 

"And I'm so grateful that Claudia took me in, I'm so relieved..." He hesitates for a millisecond before his face hardens. "That I don't have to deal with my parents anymore," he finishes with conviction. "But at this point, I don't know who I am. High school doesn't matter, the sports teams don't matter. I didn't get to college, I'm working a shitty job, and not even full-time!" He throws a hand in the air. "Actual high schoolers are taking up all the hours."  

Eddie winces. 

"You're talking to a super super senior here, I don't think I'm doing much better," he points out.

"But you have the band," Steve counters. "It's fun, you have friends for it and if you do it right, it's a great career path."

"If we do it right."

Steve turns abruptly towards him, eyes wide, before he settles back down with a sigh. 

"I believe you can. With your insane guitar skills and all," he offers. 

Eddie chuckles. 

"Thanks, man. But I'm pretty sure you can figure something out, too. I don't believe your 'sports don't matter' thing, there's a lot of money put into it," he points out, not hiding his disdain but Steve only snorts at his tone. "And you probably could land a role in a hair commercial if you tried. Hell, with your looks you could easily become an actor," he reassures his reluctant night companion.

"So you think all there is to me is my good looks?" Steve asks, rolling his head towards him again, this time pouting. 

It kind of is what he said, isn't it?

"Well, no." He straightens up, ready to fix his mistake. Well, maybe not ready, but hoping. "Henderson, uh, Dustin, sings you praises all the time and none of them are about your great hair."

"Good to know a high schooler values me," Steve scoffs, his pout deepening. 

"So!" Eddie ignores him. "If you're a good person and a pretty face, that's a whole world opening up for you. Because as sad as it is, people are simple and need pretty things to ogle. It's what sells and you could totally use it."

He looks at Steve again and when the pout doesn't disappear, he realizes he just dug himself a deeper hole, doubling down on relying on looks being Steve's only option. He stares at his bottom lip as if it could somehow pull him out. It moves and he's hoping for some guidance, but all he gets is...

"Should I just become a stripper, then?"

The flash of images is like a bullet to his head. Steve in fishnets and ridiculously high heels, bending on a pole, chest hair sticking to his pecs with sweat and shining with glitter. His lips tinted with lip gloss--

"I mean, um..." Why is Steve's hairy chest right there for him to see? "Who am I to stop you, right?" he offers with a nervous smile. "If it makes you money, it's a job." 

"I guess." He shrugs, eyes still on Eddie, but the pout is finally gone, so he can breathe easier. It's been replaced with a thoughtful expression. Steve presses the back of his hand to his arm. "Would you come to watch me?"

"Huh?" Eddie frowns at him, at the hand touching him, a single finger running against the sleeve of his shirt.

"If I was a stripper," Steve clarifies.

Would he?

It's never been something he considered, the environment more fit for sleazy older guys who can't get a girl, or businessmen too busy to bother with one. Or bachelor parties. Would he go to a strip club then, if he was invited? Probably. But would he go for someone specifically? That sounds stalkery. Would he go if it was Gareth?

Gareth would look stupid in fishnets. 

But if he asked Eddie, for moral support, would he? Probably. He tries to be a good friend. So he half-nods, half-shrugs.

"If you wanted me to."

"But would you want to?" Steve presses.

"I've never been to a strip club, I don't know." Eddie raises his shoulder in a defensive shrug, kind of lost in the weird turn their conversation has taken. 

Even more lost when Steve's hand drops lower, the back of his fingers reaching the hem of his sleeve and touching skin. The light scrape of his fingernails sends a shiver across his bones. He goes lower and lower, tantalizingly slow into the ticklish spot on Eddie's elbow.

"I'd give you a preview before the show, you could judge if it's good enough," he offers instead, hand sliding down to his thigh, resting just above the knee. Squeezing gently.

Eddie doesn't see Steve anymore. Just his big hand wrapped around his leg. There's a tiny mole on his wrist and a light dusting of hair all the way to his fingers. 

"Would you want me to strip for you?" Steve presses, snapping his attention back to himself. 

His brain is uncharacteristically empty, and It takes him a long while to register, process and understand the heavy gaze Steve's giving him, the fingers digging into the meat of his thigh, the boy next to him leaning in, his eyes dropping to Eddie's lips. 

Eddie jumps up.

"What?!"

Steve is up as well, hands out like he's placating a wild animal. Understandably, because Eddie feels like one. He wants to run like a startled gazelle, or drop dead like an opossum. But he's there frozen like a deer caught in car's headlights. Are the doors locked? How much time would he lose looking for the key if it's not in the lock? Maybe he should try the window instead?

"Shhh, please," Steve's hissing in desperation, but Eddie doesn't want to look at him. "I'll leave, I'm sorry. Please forget about it, I'm sorry."

He sounds even worse than Eddie feels, so he risks a glance towards him. His face is pale in the dim-lit living room, eyes widened in panic. 

Maybe Eddie has been the car all along. 

He knows Steve would flee if he reached out, so he doesn't dare to, slowly shows his open palms again, empty of weapons or judgement. 

"Hey, no, it's okay. I don't care about that. You just surprised me." Understatement of the century. Henderson's brother coming onto him? Impossible, abstract, a fever dream. Maybe he did have too much of Ms. Claudia's delicious earl grey. Something must have been in the tea, the school has been trying to tell him not to trust the Brits all along. 

"You don't care?" Steve repeats, not looking like he's going to puke at the very least. 

Eddie considers his words.

"Not in a 'I'm gonna punch you' way," he offers the best he's got for now. Which even he has to admit, is fucking shit. 

Steve finally relaxes, or rather deflates, half turning towards the dark corridor. 

"Thanks. Goodnight."

As the stairs creak under his steps, Eddie is still processing. He slumps back down onto the couch and for once is happy to find a distraction from his thoughts in the form of an unfinished essay. The thing gets done in no time but he barely sleeps that night. 

tags: @i-have-three-feelings @mblogs @awkwardgravity1 @imacowboy3 @just-a-tiny-void @clumsiluni @shotgunhallelujah @halfadoginatank @carlprocastinator1000 @irregular-child @dreamercec @mightbeasleep @nerdyglassescheeseychick @ellietheasexylibrarian @wheneverfeasible @wormapothacary @estrellami-1 @tinyplanet95 @steddiefication @blasvemous

[piastriprincess]

slow motion (i'm watching our love)  ⸻  lewis  hamilton  x  reader  .

featuring  lewis  hamilton  ,  past  relationship  ,  second  chance  romance  ?? word  count  2k author’s  note  my  first  lewis  fic  WE  CHEERED  !  requested  by  @lewismcqueen  -  lightning  ,  i  know  you  asked  for  a  drabble  but  sorry  !  this  one  got  away  from  me  .  i  can  only  hope  it  lives  up  to  your  gorgeous  work  .  your  writing  is  so  creative  and  daring  that  it  forever  inspires  me  to  explore  !!  i’m  so  so  honored  to  be  your  moot  <3  i  hope  you  enjoy  !!  please lmk what you think or just come chat to me i love hearing from yall !! title  is  from  supercut  by  lorde  (best  song  of  all  time  btw  .  that’s  how  much  i  love  lightning)

6:  a  crushed  velvet  sofa  and  a  video  camera  .

The apartment in Monaco feels emptier when the season slows down enough for Lewis to actually inhabit it. 

He’s been making himself busy in the months since the breakup, flying to Maranello every off weekend, relentlessly trying to fix whatever Ferrari has broken this week. Anything to keep himself in forward motion, to manage the hurt of missing you down to a dull ache. But somewhere between Montreal and Austria, the calendar thins and he gets stuck in the home the two of you had built together, stuck in reminders of the life you’d walked away from. He wanders through rooms you decorated that feel like they only know him in passing, touching surfaces that have gathered dust in his absence.

He finds it nearly by accident, digging through desk drawers he hasn’t had the chance to clean yet. The old Panasonic is half-buried under festival brochures and screenplay drafts heavily annotated in your loopy script. His fingers trace the familiar weight of it, the nicks and scrapes in the well-loved metal frame. How many times in your relationship had he rolled his eyes affectionately as you insisted on documenting everything — your filmmaker’s eye at work, always searching for a moment worth preserving? Shots of busy sidewalks, of sunlight filtering through paddock walls, of the overheard laughter of strangers. Just you and your camera, catching what everyone else’s mind forgot. 

He doesn’t really know why he plugs it in. Maybe he’s curious. Maybe he wants to see through your eyes for a minute. Maybe he just wants the chance to hear your voice again, the sound of your laugh. Whatever the reason, he finds himself digging around for a charger, watching the little camcorder hum to life before he plugs it into his laptop. 

There’s one file that pops up. Titled for L, like it’s a love story, or something. He presses play on instinct. 

The screen is black for a moment. Then all of a sudden, Lewis goes back in time. 

His hands on a steering wheel, golden sun slanting through the windows. Not a Ferrari, or a Mercedes, or even a McLaren — it’s your beat-up old Mini Cooper, the car you were driving when the two of you first started dating. He’d begged to buy you a new one for years, but you refused to get rid of it. 

The film is bright, dreamlike, overexposed, and he’s laughing already on screen when the clip starts. “You’re supposed to be navigating, love,” his voice says, trying to be stern and failing miserably. “Not making a documentary on my driving.”

“I can multitask,” your voice pipes up from behind the camera, and the mere sound of it makes Lewis’s breath catch in his throat. “I mean, it’s not every day you get behind-the-wheel footage of theeeeee Lewis Hamilton, two-time world champion.” Your voice is teasing as the camera pans up to his face, younger, more carefree. “Besides, your hands are so beautiful when you drive. Like, breathtaking. The way you hold the wheel…”

“You’re ridiculous,” past-Lewis says as he looks past the camera at you, smile soft and unguarded in a way it never is anymore. His eyes are crinkled at the corners, the love in his gaze so apparent that it feels like it could pour out of the screen.

Present-Lewis hits pause, chest tight. He remembers that drive — down the Cote d’Azur to that little town he can’t remember the name of anymore, when you were scouting locations for your first film. You’d just started dating, then, and everything felt perfect, all his memories bathed in that same golden hour light. 

He takes a deep breath and presses play again. 

The footage jumps through time, a mosaic of fragments of your life together. A late night in Singapore, both of you older, him grumbling into a pillow about a qualifying lap he barely remembers now. You zoom the camera in on him, giggling “You’re cute when you’re grumpy, Hamilton.” He rolls over and flips the camera off, but there’s a smile tugging at his lips, one that you put there. His hand reaches for the lens before it cuts to black.

Another clip, one he’s not sure you meant to film. The camera is laying on its side, trained on an overstuffed velvet couch. It’s his driver’s room, he thinks, from a few years ago. Then your voices, somewhere above the camera, unmistakable.

“I’m here. I’m trying, Lewis,” you say, breathless. “But it’s like nothing I ever do is enough for you.”

“But you’re not here, are you?” he snaps, voice low and sharp in a way that makes him wince to hear. “You’re still stuck behind your fucking camera. That’s what you’re thinking about. So don’t talk to me about being enough for me, when you can’t even be bothered to actually pay attention to what matters to me.”

There’s silence, for a moment. “I thought I mattered to you,” you say, voice small. 

He doesn’t respond. There’s the sound of a door creaking open, then slamming shut. A sniffle. And then the camera tilts dizzyingly and the film cuts to black again. 

When the screen lights up, it’s the two of you in the kitchen of your apartment, boxes still stacked in the corners. The camera is set up on the counter, so you’re in the frame for once.  Seeing you hurts in the best way. He’d forgotten how striking you were, how visceral your beauty always felt to him. You’re wearing one of his Mercedes hoodies, sleeves pushed up to your elbows, flattening out pizza dough on the counter. He’s behind you singing along to some 2000s R&B track he doesn’t remember the lyrics to now, a glass of wine in one hand and the other resting on your hip as he dances lazily with you. You hum along, rolling the dough a little too aggressively, and the camera falls sharply to the side. The two of you freeze, looking at each other, and then both burst into laughter so loud that the audio clips. He’s just wrapped you into his arms, nearly swinging you into the air as he peppers kisses against your skin, when the footage cuts again. 

In the next clip, you’re in a hotel room he doesn’t recognize. The camera is set up in the corner, the two of you lounging on a bed. Your bare legs are thrown over his lap, and there’s something playing softly on the TV that he can’t see. Your mouth is moving, but he can’t quite hear what you’re saying. Probably mouthing the words to your favorite quotes, the way you always did during your favorite movies. You knew practically every word of Casablanca, once upon a time. Lewis wonders if you still do. 

“Nerd,” he says fondly on screen, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. He’s not even pretending to watch the movie.

You lean into his touch, eyes flicking between him and the TV. “You love it.”

“I love you,” he corrects, pressing a soft kiss to the corner of your mouth. You sigh happily, hand wrapping around to the nape of his neck and pulling him back down to your lips again, movie forgotten. You’re about to pull him on top of you when the screen goes black again.

Then you’re back in the kitchen in the Monaco apartment, fully decorated this time. Past-Lewis is sitting exactly where present-Lewis sits, watching something on your laptop just like he is now. It’s trippy enough that it takes him a minute to focus on the conversation playing out on screen. You’d asked him to watch one of your films, he thinks. 

“What do you think about the ending?” you ask. There’s a note of nervousness in your voice that he didn’t notice then. Like even though he was hopeless with all the film stuff, couldn’t tell aspect ratio from frame rate, you really cared what he thought. 

His recorded self looks directly into the lens. “Honestly, love? I think it’s a cop-out.”

Your voice, sharp. Like a warning he didn’t quite catch. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You always pull back when things get too perfect. Like you have to prove a point instead of letting yourself enjoy a happy ending.”

There’s a long pause. The frame trembles slightly, focusing on his face as he looks back at the screen. “Maybe,” you say, so quietly that Lewis has to rewind and turn up the volume on his laptop so he can hear. “Or maybe I just know happy endings don’t always last.”

The footage keeps going — Silverstone, Monaco, New York. It’s not a love story like he’d expected, not exactly. It’s something messier, out of order, more imperfect. Fights and kisses. Airports and cheering crowds. Double exposures, strange angles, that same dreamlike lighting. None of it plays like a highlight reel. It’s not curated to be beautiful. 

It just is. 

The final clip is of his car, sitting in your driveway. It’s raining lightly, the soft patter audible in the film, and Lewis has to squint for a moment before he sees himself in the driver’s seat. He’s gripping the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles are white, head bowed with exhaustion. The footage goes on like that for several minutes before he gets out of the car, walking towards your door. He’s wearing the same outfit from that final day, when you walked out. When he let you. 

Lewis’s stomach drops as past-Lewis disappears from the frame. After a minute, there’s a hesitant knock on the door, but the camera stays trained on the empty car.

Then the screen goes black for the last time, and it’s like you left him alone in the apartment again. Nothing but deadly silence, and the ache of missing you. 

Maybe you’d been right. Maybe happy endings didn’t last. Maybe you were right not to trust them. But maybe that was never the point. Maybe the point is that a happy ending happened, at least for a brief and perfect instant. That between the frames of hurt and misunderstanding and falling apart, there were moments of beauty that you’d painstakingly captured, like you were saying this is real, this is worth saving, this matters. 

He’s picking up his phone and scrolling to your contact before he can think too hard about it. He may not remember the name of the town you drove to, or the lyrics to that song, or even what movie you were watching. But he remembers the way you laughed, how you felt in his arms, how you watched him like everything he did was something worth preserving. 

For the first time in a long time, Lewis really remembers how it felt to love you, to be loved by you. Even when it was messy. Even when it hurt. 

Found your camera, he types, fingers trembling over the letters. I remember everything. Everything that matters, at least. I guess what I mean to say is I remember you. I miss you, love. 

He sends it before he can second-guess himself, throwing the phone facedown on the counter like it might burn him if he holds it too long. You probably won’t respond. It’s been months now. You’ve moved on, surely, to your next film, your next subject. The thought makes his chest tighten. He shouldn’t have sent it. Maybe this was just your way of saying goodbye. It was stupid of him, reckless, selfish —

His phone buzzes against the granite, and when he flips it over, your name is glowing on the screen.

Like the first frame of something new. 

[yoomiwrites]

Wanted Warmth

Summary: Timid (gn) Reader likes it cold. Ace, however, is usually way too hot.

Note: As I promised, you will get some of the Requests that sat in my lil box for way too long. Enjoy!

✦═════✦═════✦

The sun hung high over the Grand Line, its heat merciless against the sea-salted breeze. You stood with your back pressed against the cool wood of the ship’s shaded rail, soaking in the faint chill the ocean’s spray offered. It wasn’t much — not nearly enough, but it was better than nothing.

You’d been aboard the Moby Dick long enough to know which hours to avoid the deck entirely, which crew members ran hotter than the sun, and which corners offered the most relief. And unfortunately, the one person you couldn’t seem to avoid lately was Ace.

It wasn’t personal. He was... fine, you guessed. Loud, warm... too warm. Every time he passed by, the air around him seemed to climb five degrees, his devil fruit power always seeping off him in little unconscious flickers. His carefree laughter was usually followed by the subtle crackle of heat, like a summer day sneaking up on you in the middle of winter.

You’d mastered the art of slipping away unnoticed whenever he entered a room.

Or at least, you thought you had.

Today wasn’t your lucky day.

"Oi, Y/N! Hiding from the sun again?" His voice floated over before you even saw him.

You flinched, resisting the instinct to step further back, but the rail gave you no room. When you turned, there he was — shirt half-unbuttoned, hat tipped back, and a lazy smile stretched across his sun-kissed face.

"I’m not hiding," you mumbled, eyes flicking away. "Just... prefer the cold."

Ace tilted his head, as if genuinely puzzled by the idea. "Huh. The cold, huh? I never really got that."

You shrugged, wishing he’d step back, just a little. The heat rolling off his skin was stifling, and even the slight shift in the breeze couldn’t save you.

"I don’t hate you, y'know, but could you...back off?," you added quietly, aware of how often you'd avoided him, how distant you probably seemed. "You’re just... hot."

A beat passed. His eyebrows lifted.

"Hot, huh?" The teasing lilt in his voice hit immediately, and your face burned before he even opened his mouth again. "I didn’t realize I had that kind of effect on you."

Your eyes snapped wide, horrified, but Ace let out a laugh. That easy, sun-bright laugh that always made your chest twist uncomfortably.

"I meant temperature-wise," you deadpanned, turning away. "Your Devil Fruit. You’re literally too hot."

"Ah," he chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. "Fair enough."

For a moment, silence stretched between you. Not the awkward kind, surprisingly. Just easy. Warm, even. Metaphorically, anyway.

"...You know," he started again, voice softer this time, "I could try turning it off. The heat, I mean. When I’m around you."

You blinked, caught off guard. He rubbed his arm, sheepish now, gaze dropping away from yours.

"I figured... if you're always avoiding me ‘cause of that, well — it’s not fair. I don’t want you to feel like you have to freeze alone just to get away from me."

Your throat bobbed, unsure what to say.

Ace, who always seemed to burn brighter than anyone around him, was offering to dim his flame for your comfort. The thought made your heart ache, just a little.

"...Thanks," you managed, voice soft as the breeze.

He grinned again, this time without the teasing. Just warm.

"Anytime."

Later the day, the sun had finally dipped low, leaving behind only faint traces of heat on the deck. This was your favorite time — when the ship exhaled the last of the day’s warmth, the sky painted deep blue, and the cold finally began creeping in around the edges.

You lingered a little longer on the deck than usual, leaning over the rail, watching the waves glitter under the moonlight. The evening breeze pulled at your sleeves, cool enough to raise goosebumps along your arms. Perfect, really.

So perfect, you didn’t even hear the soft footfalls behind you until a shadow shifted beside you.

"...Hey."

You blinked, turning slightly. Ace.

But something was different this time. He wasn’t radiating his usual summer heat. If anything, he almost felt... normal. Human. Just another person in the cool evening air.

You stared at him for a second, puzzled, before he gave you a small, sheepish smile.

"Told you I’d try to keep the heat off when you’re around," he said, leaning his elbows on the rail, gazing out at the sea like it was nothing. "Been practicing all day."

The thought made your chest twist in a new way. He’d actually remembered. Spent energy — real effort — on something as small as your comfort.

"You didn’t have to," you murmured.

"Yeah, I did," he replied, eyes still fixed on the horizon. "You’ve been part of this crew longer than me. I figured I should stop making it hard for you to stand being near me."

You swallowed, the words sticking somewhere soft.

The silence this time wasn’t awkward. It felt... safe, almost. And for once, you didn’t feel the need to back away.

You stayed like that for a while, shoulder to shoulder, the cool breeze ruffling both your hair. The distance between you wasn’t much — a few inches — and with Ace keeping his warmth under control, it was almost easy to forget why you’d avoided him in the first place.

After a while, his voice broke the quiet again, lower, more careful.

"...Y'know, you never really talk much. I always figured you didn’t like me."

Your lips twitched into a faint smile. "I never disliked you," you repeated softly. "Just couldn’t handle the heat."

Ace huffed a quiet laugh. "Guess I can’t blame you. But... I was hoping that if I kept the heat in check, maybe you wouldn’t mind being around me more."

You turned your head, meeting his gaze. His freckles were just visible in the moonlight, the usual cocky spark in his eyes softened into something more honest. Something more hopeful.

Your chest gave a quiet, traitorous flutter.

"I don’t mind," you said, voice just above a whisper. "Not anymore."

For once, you really didn’t pull away when he shifted slightly closer, the space between you melting away like frost under the sun. His shoulder brushed stronger against yours — not too warm, not too cold, just comfortably in-between.

"I’m glad," he murmured, and you could feel the smile in his voice before you saw it. "I’ve been trying to find an excuse to be around you anyway."

You let out a small, shaky breath, but didn’t move.

Maybe you didn’t need the cold as much as you thought.

[discountlittlebro]

Pretty little neighbor boy sitting on the railing of his porch, kicking his pretty little tan legs. Smiling when he sees the neighbor finally getting home. The man next door is a grump, always alone and shooing away any company. He usually succeeds, except for the boy next door.

He tries not to look at him, he’s old enough to be the boys father he shouldn’t look at him. But it’s hard. He finds himself eyeing his slender legs, his round hips and his stomach. The little tangtops he wears are always riding up and his shorts are too short. The neighbor can tell when he’s not wearing anything underneath, has to rush inside to fist his cock in the shower on the days he gets a glimpse of pink panties.

And this damned brat always finds an excuse to talk to him. Mixed up mail, asking to borrow a cup of sugar, even once dragging the man over to his house because he had a leak in the ceiling. Like he’s some kind of handy man. Still, when the boys soft hand slides into his much bigger one, he can’t say no. He fixes the lose tile and quickly goes back home, tries not think about how he smells like honey dew, or how he leaned against his counter texting on the phone and showing off the curve of his perfect little ass. The very next day he was knocking on his door again, this time with a fresh baked pie. A thank you.

So yeah, he’s learned he can’t avoid the boy. He stops in his tracks when he sees him jump off the railing and take off running towards him. It makes something in chest flutter.

“Hey mister! How was work today?”

Mister. A nickname he came up with for him because of his job at the college. It’s stupid. He adores it.

“I spent my entire day with little shits like you, how do you think it was? Not a single of them have a shred of media literacy. They need everything spelled out for them and at face value. Fucking ridiculous how they managed to get to my class.”

“Awww sounds like a rough day. Come on, let’s use your big boy job money to buy me an ice cream, that’ll make you feel better!”

He scoffs, rolling his eyes. He’s not even sure why he bothers telling this kid anything.

“Yes, because after spending the day dealing with snot nosed brats, the thing that will make me feel better is spending my money on another snot nosed brat.” He deadpans, ready to start walking back to his house when the little blonde catches him by suprise.

“What if I sucked it off your cock? Would it be worth it then?”

He had to be hearing things. Blondie has made a lot of flirty comments, but he’s never said anything so out right like that.

“What did you just say?” He’s staring down at him his breathe caught in his throat. If this kid is fucking with him he’ll…he’s not sure what he’ll do.

“I said, what if I suck it off your cock? Are you getting hard of hearing in your old age?”

Damned brat. Damned spoiled, tease of a brat. He should tell him off, should make him cry just like he does everyone else who bothers him. But he doesn’t. Instead he’s watching as the boy happily licks at a vanilla cone in his passenger seat, his legs crossed and propped up on his dash. He grins at the older man, suddenly shoving himself over the center console.

“Here hold my cone. Don’t let it melt!!”

Yeah, because he can control if the damned ice cream melts in the middle of the summer. He doesn’t get to shoot back any remarks, too taken off guard by the mouth suddenly wrapped around his cock. His free hand curls in the blondes hair, gently guiding him up and down on it, his other hand holds the vanilla cone out the window so it doesn’t make a mess in his car. By the time the boy is sitting back up in his seat he’s pouting, arms crossed over his chest. The professor is panting his seat, positive he’s seen divine forces just flash before his eyes.

“You let it melt!” He whines, angrily kicking his feet back up on the dashboard.

And yeah, it did melt so he lets it fall to ground.

“I’ll buy you another.”

[ptergwen]

saw the post for ideas 👀… yknow those vlogs peter would film in homecoming? what if the only exception in strange’s spell was to let him keep a copy of those films of you and him/memories of the team. he rewatches them when he needs to feel like someone is there with him eating dinner, on holidays, a rough night of patrol, etc :(

always belong to you ❤︎‬

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w/c: 2.0k

warnings: suggestive jokes, doctor strange being a bully, angst

a/n: ugh you know i love an angst/fluff combo, i lowkey got carried away if you can't tell by the word count lmao but i think y'all will like :) p.s. i have more things brewing so stay tuned!

"ok, so, we just got on the plane. we're taking off in... i don't know, soon."

the camera pans to you half asleep on peter's shoulder. you hide your face in your boyfriend's flannel, grinning nevertheless. "y/n's tired. it's early," peter tells the camera. "but i'm excited," you mumble. he beams and hugs you to his side. "me too. we all are."

you wrap your arms around peter's bicep and rest your chin on his shoulder. "so, where are you the most excited to go? london, right?" peter looks over at you, his hand rubbing up and down your side. "mhm. what about you, venice?" you ask him.

"definitely venice. i’ve been practicing my italian," peter says. you move closer to the camera so you can talk into it. "yeah, he actually learned some italian. and french, for when we go to paris." you smile sleepily. "city of love," peter adds. you peck his lips, and he smiles against yours.

you never actually made it to paris. god, that whole trip was a disaster. it's a miracle his camera even survived it, since most of his stuff literally got blown up. your plans kept getting changed, and peter barely got to spend any time with you or his friends because he got dragged into doing spider-man stuff, spider-man stuff that put everybody in danger.

but it's not spider-man's fault that he lost you — it's peter parker's.

"you've been practicing your british accent. that's something," peter jokes. "oh yeah, true. i also learned british slang. i wanna be cultured like you, innit?" you do an over-exaggerated accent, which peter chuckles at. "c'mon, i never even leave new york. except germany that one time, and..." he lowers his voice. "space."

"what are you doing?" mj pops up behind peter. her, ned, and betty are in the row behind yours. you got stuck next to flash, who's been snapping at one of the flight attendants for something. "just making video diaries of the trip," peter explains. "ooh, aren't those for may?" ned enthusiastically asks from the aisle seat. "hi, may! everybody say hi to peter's aunt!"

"hi, peter's aunt!" betty waves. "sup, aunt milf," flash chimes in. peter clenches his jaw. "hi, may. your nephew woke me up," mj deadpans. she manages a smile. "i don't know how i’m gonna get any sleep around the lovebirds."

"i'm gonna sleep, too. i'm still kinda tired," you tell mj through a yawn, squeezing peter's bicep. "you should try to sleep, darling. there's gonna be a pretty big time difference when we land." you lay your head on peter's shoulder again with a smile that he returns even bigger.

"okay, i will. don't wanna be jet lagged," peter agrees, turning the camera to himself. "well, that's it for now, may. love you! see you when we land!"

"bye, may!" you echo, peter resting his head against yours as the video ends.

you were both so happy back then. now, you don't even remember who peter is. all he has left of you is memories, ironically enough. it's all he has left of any of his loved ones. may is gone, his only family. his best friends have no memory of him, and neither does his team.

but if peter had just thought things through before he asked doctor strange to cast that spell, he wouldn't have needed to cast a second one, and the world wouldn't have forgotten peter parker.

peter wishes he could make you remember him on nights like these, when he's missing you extra. he'd kept to himself all day in his classes — he doesn't really engage with anyone unless he's in the suit. patrol was quiet tonight, though. so as peter lays on his creaky bed at the end of the day, all by himself in his cramped apartment, he's never felt more lonely.

he thought it might make him feel better to watch some of his old videos. his camera is one of the only things he'd kept from before, and it has videos with everyone on it. he watches them sometimes so he can hear your voice, see your face.

"peter! you look so cute in your little lab coat," you say behind the camera. "babe, you can't call me cute in here," peter groans. you zoom in on him setting up some test tubes. "yeah, you think you're so tough cause you're an avenger. spider-man can't be cute, he's too big and scary," you tease.

"maybe not scary, but he's big for sure." peter smirks at the camera. "i can confirm," you smirk at him. peter's eyes widen. "woah, y/n. i meant, like, my arms. you're so unprofessional today, i think i'm gonna need a new camerawoman," peter shakes his head playfully, pouring something into a beaker.

"you can't replace me. i'm irreplaceable," you insist. "yeah. i know you are," peter says, and means it. he can make out a smile in your voice. "anyways, since you're so tough, why don't you take off the coat? and the goggles? i guess you don't need them."

"i can't! if doctor strange comes back and sees, he'll say i’m-"

"-violating safety precautions and being stupidly, dangerously irresponsible."

doctor strange lands on the linoleum floor of the lab, his cloak trailing behind him. peter has his goggles on his head, so he quickly pulls them down. you prop the camera up against a stool subtly, all three of you coming into the frame.

"we're dealing with the quantum realm, parker, something neither you nor i completely understand. let's not take our chances." strange puts on his own pair of lab goggles, giving both you and peter a stern look. you make a face at the camera. "yes, sir. i mean, stephen. i mean... yeah, stephen," peter stutters.

you take his hand to calm his nerves. he laces your fingers together with a grateful smile.

"where's banner?" doctor strange asks. "still not here yet. scott and i started setting up, though," peter answers. "you're certainly no world renowned scientists, but fine. i trust you know enough to handle glassware," strange says sarcastically.

"and what have you been doing, practicing your magic tricks?" you ask doctor strange. "they're not tricks, it's a mystic art. but yes, actually. things work differently in the quantum realm than they do here," he replies, narrowing his eyes at you.

"thanks for clearing that up. wow, you know a lot about this stuff. i can see why they made you sorcerer supreme," you say smugly. doctor strange closes his eyes, visibly irritated. "no, they chose wong. you know that," he says in a monotone. peter bites the inside of his cheek to suppress a smile.

you'd naturally met the avengers over the years you and peter were dating. everybody loved you because peter loved you, and they loved him. doctor strange was another story. peter hardly felt like strange even tolerated him, let alone his girlfriend he was constantly getting humbled by.

you figured that if he did it to peter, someone should do it to him. peter always appreciated you having his back in those moments.

you and strange had your banter, though, and he did love peter in his own way. clearly, considering that he brainwashed the whole world for him on multiple occasions.

"is there a reason you're here exactly?" doctor strange questions you. "yeah, to watch you make pym particles." you shrug. he sighs. "make– it doesn't work that way." doctor strange turns to peter. "what is she doing here?" he crosses his arms over his chest, his cloak mirroring his stance.

"y/n's always here," peter innocently replies, swinging your connected hands back and forth.

"yeah, she's one of us!"

"who said that?" doctor strange demands, looking around the lab.

"it's me, i’m tiny. hold on." scott suddenly grows from the size of an ant to his normal, human size, appearing next to the three of you. doctor strange and his cloak jump backwards.

"have you been here this whole time?" strange's voice raises in anger. "um, yeah. pay attention much?" scott scoffs. "pete already told you, we're setting up. hey, y/n/n." you and scott fist bump. "pete," he claps peter's shoulder. peter nods at him. "hey, scott. keep up the good work."

"solidarity among the bug men, isn't that sweet?" doctor strange dryly remarks. scott points a finger at him. "listen, wizard. you should be nicer to me. i’m your ticket to this whole quantum thing."

the two of them start to argue, so you and peter sneak away. you grab peter's camera again and film him as he finishes setting up for their experiment.

"i can't believe we got all that on video," peter laughs out. "yeah, that was some avengers reality tv shit," you agree. peter tightens more test tubes in place. some have pym particles in them, others empty. you suddenly take peter's chin between your fingers, prompting him to stop what he's doing and look up.

"you know what i was trying to say before? i know you're tough, and strong, but i’ll never just see you as spider-man. you're peter."

his doe eyes lock with yours behind the camera.

"and you might be spider-man to the world, but you'll always be my peter."

peter stops the video. he rewinds it to the part where you call him your peter, and then rewinds it again. tears begin to well up in his eyes. at the time, it was just something sweet you said. you could never have known how much it would mean to him now.

peter curls up on his pillow. he's gripping the camera with both hands, holding on tightly like it's you, because it's the closest thing he has to you. tears drip down his face and land on the screen as the rest of the video plays.

"thanks, baby. i'm not that strong, though. i just try to act like it because i’m scared. this all gets pretty intimidating sometimes," peter admits. "i know, but you deserve to be here. they need you here, and i think you're strong for coming," you reassure him. you flip the camera so it's showing your face and the back of peter's head.

peter kisses your cheek, then your lips lovingly. he can't tell watching it back, but he assumes he tries for more because you giggle and turn your face away.

"okay, guys! we hashed everything out!" scott calls in the background. "something of that sort," doctor strange mutters. "and y/n, since you insist on being here..." the cloak of levitation flies over to you and forms a makeshift hand, holding out a lab coat and goggles. "we have a dress code."

peter snickers at you. you put down the camera and take the lab gear, glaring at doctor strange, who smiles wickedly. strange's cloak floats behind you and taps on the camera lens, alerting his attention to it. his smile drops.

"are you two idiots recording in my lab?" doctor strange asks you and peter. "bruce's lab," scott corrects him. "yeah, it's mr. bruce's. i mean, doctor bruce's. i mean, doctor banner's-" peter cuts himself off when doctor strange comes marching over. he narrowly avoids bumping into him.

strange's cloak swipes the camera off the lab desk. you reach for it, but the cloak floats higher.

"well, until mr. doctor bruce banner shows up, i’m in charge, and this is strictly confidential," doctor strange decides.

"but we're not gonna show anyone, it's just for memories!" peter defends. "bruce always lets us record," you add. strange grabs the camera. "coat and goggles on. now," he reprimands you, scowling at the camera as he shuts it off.

peter actually finds himself laughing when the video ends. he misses you and his team so much, but watching his old videos has been comforting. he's exhausted now, both physically and emotionally, so he gets under the covers and lets himself drift off to the sounds of your voice as the next video plays.

there's a piece of you in each one, and a piece of peter parker, too. the real peter parker — yours. he'll always belong to you, even if you don't know it.

tags

@spidermans-gf @sacharinee @thollandsgirl2013 @pettypeety @girlinlovewithlove @marvelgurl @superlegend216 @angelinabelovedballerina @moniffazictress11 @superlegend216 @doubledizzy22 @mystic-writings @just-lost-inbetween-worlds @lnmp89 @starlight-starks @hollandsangel @ellebutnotwoods @tayyx @valluvsu @ronweasleysslut @winchestersgirl222  @fishingirl12 @raajali3 @niktwazny303 @thismessymasterpiece @alina02 @itsjanedeluca @idkeverythingistakennn @prancerrparkerr @urfayevorite @getwellsoontana @deanswifeyy @marvelita86 @uhhhj13iguess

[anon-188]

on anon because I'm feeling shy, but — aj teaching her something she needs to know for a job, but with cockwarming involved. bonus points if she ends up teaching him something in return. 😌

pairing: AJ x f!reader | genre: smut | wc: 1.6k

warnings: explicit sexual content (18+), cockwarming (obvi), unprotected sex, dom!AJ, power dynamics, brat!reader, strong language.

a/n: i hope this is close to what you meant!! thank you for requesting! <3 hope you like it :)

It was yet another late night. AJ had come over to your place this time, settling in as you both got back to work. Blueprints were spread across the dining room table, creased at the corners from how often you’d been poring over them the past few nights.

You were getting better at it—better than when you first started—but not quite where you needed to be for the next job.

Normally, AJ was the one calling the shots when it came to planning, but this time Gordon had insisted on having two people manage the layout. He wanted to double down on logistics, make sure nothing was missed.

And surprisingly, Gordon had vouched for you. Said you had a good head for angles. That your insight had saved their asses more than once, even if he didn’t always say it out loud.

But then came the issue of you not being able to fully read the blueprints. The layers, the symbols—it all blurred together if you looked too long.

Gordon had asked if you thought you could get it sorted in two weeks, close the gap, and you said yes, fully thinking you’d just play catch-up on your own.

The second AJ found out you needed help—like the gentleman he swore he was—he offered.

Only problem?

AJ’s version of help usually ended with you bent over some surface, breathless, moaning his name while the plans sat forgotten in a pile beside you.

You’d been hooking up with him on the low for a few months now. Everyone thought you just worked well together—which was true. They just didn’t know how well.

Tonight, it was supposed to be business.

AJ sat to your right, forearms braced on the table, sleeves rolled up just past his elbows. His watch glinted as he pointed to a section of the blueprint—something about structural tension—and you tried to focus, you really did. 

But now you were over it.

Not because it was too hard—you were getting there—but because AJ had been teasing you nonstop.

His hand stayed on your thigh, inching higher every so often, close to slipping under your skirt. He kept leaning in when he didn’t need to, talking in that low voice of his that always sounded like a setup. And every time you looked up, that stupid smirk was waiting—cocky, amused, and dangerously inviting.

You let out a breath, folding your arms.

“What’s wrong?” AJ asked, all confidence and charm.

You didn’t answer. Kept your eyes on the table, pretending to study the blueprint like you were still trying to make sense of it. But you weren’t. You were already thinking. Plotting.

And then you got an idea.

Without a word, you moved onto AJ’s lap, settling yourself with just enough ease to make it seem casual. He raised a brow, slightly surprised, but the smile tugging at his mouth said he wasn’t complaining. 

When he asked what you were doing, you played it off with a shrug, eyes on the table. “Trying to get a better view of the blueprints.”

He didn’t push it. Just leaned back, still watching you like he already knew what you were up to.

Not even a minute later, you shifted your hips.

AJ let out a low hum, followed by a soft chuckle. “So that’s what this is about.”

You didn’t answer. You just rolled your hips again, slower this time. His hands slid over the tops of your thighs, then up your sides as he exhaled, the sound rougher now, deeper.

“We still need to get through these,” he said, though he made no effort to move you. Instead, his hands found your hips again, thumbs pressing into your skin like he was considering something.

Then he shifted beneath you—slow, intentional—just enough for you to feel the full length of him under you, hard and heavy through his pants. He let you feel it. Let you sit with it.

“You want it that bad?” he asked, his hands firm against your inner thigh, holding you in place.

“Then you’re gonna sit right here. No grinding. No whining. You take all of me—and if you can keep still…” His voice dropped again, slower now. “I’ll make it worth it.”

You knew exactly what he meant.

He’d done this before—kept you full, still, aching while he made you wait. He was always so damn nonchalant about it. But you? You never lasted long.

AJ leaned you forward slightly, one hand at the small of your back. The other went to his belt, the sound of the buckle sharp in the quiet room. You heard the drag of the zipper next, then the faint shift of fabric.

As soon as he freed himself, he gripped his cock and started working it in slow strokes. His breath turned heavier, dirtier, like he was already imagining how good you’d feel around him.

He pushed your skirt higher, fingers grazing your skin as he bared just enough.

Then— 

“Come here,” he murmured, the gravel in his voice saying more than the words did.

You repositioned, pushing your underwear aside as his hands slid back to your hips and guided you into place.

The moment you sank down on him, your head tipped back followed by a sharp moan before you could stop it. Your body clenched at the stretch, just as AJ’s hands gripped harder, holding you flush against him. 

He didn’t move—not yet. Just let you feel him.

And fuck, you felt everything.

Even after groaning from the contact himself, AJ still had that cocky grin in his voice. 

“You probably won’t last ten minutes like this,” he muttered against your skin. “You’re never patient.”

Was he right? Sure.

Every other time, yeah, you cracked. But not tonight. Not after the teasing, not after the bullshit earlier that had you pressing your thighs together just to keep from reacting.

So you didn’t answer. You didn’t even look at him. Just exhaled slow, steeling yourself, and reached for the blueprint again.

You’d prove him wrong, even if it killed you.

He was thick and hot inside you, pulsing gently with every small clench of your body. The stretch was maddening—not from movement, but from the absence of it.

The stillness made it worse. Made it better. Your body ached for friction, for rhythm, but you forced your eyes to stay on the paper in front of you.

You were full, so full it was impossible not to feel every inch of him. Every subtle twitch. Every small shift of his thigh beneath yours that pushed him in just a little deeper—just enough to remind you who was in control.

Well. Who he thought was in control.

For the next thirty minutes, AJ listened to you ask questions. Over and over.

Now you were leaning in again, dragging your finger across the same damn corner of the blueprint you’d already asked about—twice.

“So this—this feeds into the silent alarm loop, right?”

AJ’s hand flexed beside yours, knuckles going white for half a second before he answered. “Yeah.”

Flat. Dry. Barely controlled.

He kept his eyes on the paper, jaw tight, forcing himself to keep breathing evenly.

This was not how he thought this would go.

He thought you’d fold by now. That you’d get needy. Desperate.

But it was him—he was the one struggling to stay composed.

And then came another fucking question.

“If the silent alarm trips and power reroutes, it defaults to this backup here, doesn’t it? The one tucked behind the vault elevator shaft?”

Your finger landed precisely where it needed to. The way your voice sounded—soft, thoughtful, just a little unsure—could’ve passed for innocent. But AJ knew better.

You had understood the basics last week. You didn’t need to ask.

And now he understood something else. You were playing dumb. Drawing it out on purpose. Testing him.

He didn’t even bother to answer.

You moved in his lap, the motion controlled and unhurried. Then you looked back at him with that sweet little over-the-shoulder glance, hips rolling again—just enough to make sure he really felt it.

And he did. 

His hands landed on your hips, rougher than he meant, fingers tightening like he might lose the last of his patience right there.

Your eyes met his.

“What’s wrong?” you asked, soft and syrup-sweet.

AJ’s jaw tensed. His gaze dropped to where your bodies met—where you were still wrapped around him—then dragged back up to your face, darker now. Focused.

So you made it worse.

“Thought you were the patient one?” you said, then rocked your hips forward as much as you could.

His grip tightened, stilling your movement immediately. Harder this time. Possessive. Final.

Suddenly, he stood—fast and forceful—taking you with him, never slipping free.

You barely had time to react before he bent you over the table, pressing you down until your palms flattened over the blueprints.

His mouth was at your ear, voice low and sharp.

“Patience doesn’t mean I’ll let you off,” he bit out, pinning you to the table.

A pause followed, thick and weighted. Enough to make your body brace.

Then he drove into you.

Brutal. No warning. You cried out his name, loud and raw, the sound chased by a curse you that broke from your chest.

He didn’t slow. Just found a rhythm and stayed in it, each thrust hard and unforgiving, dragging another sound from your throat every time his hips met yours.

“You wanted to win?” he said, voice hoarse. One hand slid up to your shoulder, holding you steady, while the other locked back around your hip.

You tried to say his name again, tried to shape it into a plea, but it came out thin.

He let out a harsh breath through his nose, fingers digging in deeper.

“Don’t tap out now.”

Then came the words, quiet and dangerous.

“Take it like a good girl.”

please do not repost, copy, or claim my work as your own.

• tag list: @alealuvshayden @sythethecarrot @apocalyptichero @ggyuslovie @anak1ns-wife @5secondsofmoxley @f1wh0recom @purplerose291 @i5hyv @endairachristensen26 @mvst4far

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[shaunasrabbit]

Eyes on the Prize | QZ!Joel x F!Reader

Explicit. Minors DNI. Part V.

Summary: You play a road trip game with Joel.

Tags: No use of y/n, reader is afab and uses she/her pronouns, some physical descriptions (has a bush because #bushnation, has hair that can be pulled, and is curvy if you squint), age gap (reader is in her late 20s, Joel is in his 50s), bratty reader and mean!Joel, dom!Joel, verbal degradation, some pussy smacking, spit, dirty talk, pussy pronouns, use of good girl and other pet names, fingering, m!masturbation (Joel jerkin' it), spit, finger sucking, hair pulling, cum eating, like sort of edging but not really, distracted driving (drive safe, y'all). If I missed any tags, please let me know!

Word count: ~4.2K

Read on AO3

A/N: I'll be traveling for work this next week, but I wanted to get something out before I'm super busy. This chapter is on the shorter side and mainly smut, so it kind of feels like filler, but I hope you enjoy! Lightly proofread this myself, so my apologies for any typos. All on me. As always, likes/reblogs/comments are appreciated and feedback is welcome. Thank you for reading! Divider by @/saradika-graphics

PREVIOUS CHAPTER | NEXT CHAPTER

“Jesus, where d’ya learn to drive?” Joel mumbles, gripping the grab handle like he’ll somehow fly out of the car if he lets go.

“I didn’t really learn how to drive,” you snap, “and it’s not my fucking fault that no one’s filling in the potholes during the apocalypse.” 

You roll your eyes and try to ignore the way your face feels hot under Joel’s gaze, tapping your fingers against the steering wheel. In the last hour and a half, you’ve only hit two potholes and considering the state of the roads, that’s a feat.

It’s surprising that Joel is even letting you drive. When he said you’d be borrowing a truck from Bill and Frank, you were sure that he’d be the one behind the wheel the entire time, but after a solid two hours on the road, he let you take over, still exhausted from fucking you last night. You’re tired too, obviously, blinking away any exhaustion that tries to settle within you, but you’re not going to complain. Knowing Joel, he’d say something like I guess I won’t fuck you anymore ‘cause ya clearly can’t handle it. 

Thinking about Joel fucking you is a mistake. Distracted from your daydreaming, you hit another pothole and your heads nearly smack into the ceiling. 

“Don’t even—”

“Are you even paying attention?” Joel cuts you off with his question. It’s rhetorical, but you start thinking of a snarky comment. “Gonna pop a fucking tire.”

“Joel,” you begin, tone venomous. When he shoots you a sharp look that you catch from your periphery, you bite your tongue. With an annoyed huff, you ask, “How much longer?” 

“Couple’a hours,” he responds, pulling out the map and tracing a line from Lincoln to Lake George. “D’ya think you can manage not to kill us?”

“Stop talking to me.” 

“Gladly,” he murmurs, turning his head to look out the window. He reminds you of an angsty teen and you bite back a smile.

Over breakfast, Joel informed you of your plan. The two of you would head up to Lake George, a roughly a three hour drive if you were able to take the highways, but it would take you longer if you were avoiding infected, raiders, or other smugglers. You’d be trading with some people that Joel met when they were still in the QZ. He said he trusts them enough and if Joel trusts them, so do you. 

Bill and Frank need welded cage wire to secure the perimeter of their safe haven and a few other things, so they’re sending you with a hand crank radio, ammunition, and guns. Joel hasn’t told you what you’re getting out of it, but again, you trust him. At this point, the two of you are hours from the QZ and have to rely on each other for survival, so you don’t really have a choice. If Joel says it’s a good deal, then it’s a good deal. You’ll have to take his word for it.

Are you nervous about the journey? Of course. It’s indubitably dangerous and honestly, a little stupid, but again, what else are you to do?

The silence feels oppressive as Joel stares straight ahead, eyes glued to the busted concrete terrain in front of you. Reaching over, you grab a cassette from the holder in the center console. You’re trying not to hit potholes, so you don’t really look at your selection before popping it in the tape deck. Turning up the volume, you feel your breath catch in your throat when Johnny Cash starts to play.

“Good pick,” Joel mumbles.

“Sure is, cowboy,” you say teasingly, glancing at Joel as he shoots you a dirty look, eyes narrowed. His lips twitch into what resembles a smile.

Then it’s just you two and the music.

I hear the train a-comin’, it’s rolling ‘round the bend.

And I ain’t seen the sunshine since I don’t know when.

You can practically hear your father’s voice from afar, like he’s still in the kitchen singing and making breakfast. You can almost smell the bacon and taste the eggs, your dad appearing in the doorway, juggling plates. Sunny side up, he’d say.  Just how you like ‘em, so you can dip your toast in the yolks. The music drags you back in time.

The tapping of Joel’s foot from the passenger side snatches you from your memory and you feel grateful for the interruption. You let the whole tape play before pulling it out. As you’re retrieving from the deck, ready to toss it back in the console, your hand on the steering wheel follows your turned head and you nearly drive off of the road. 

“I know,” you blurt out before Joel gets the chance to speak. “I’m a shit driver.”

“Not necessarily a bad driver, just a distracted one,” he says. 

“That was almost a compliment, so thanks, but also, I’m not…that easily distracted,” you defend yourself, eyes trained on the open road. 

Joel lifts a brow, looking at you with amusement etched on his face. Glancing over at him quickly before looking at the road again, you furrow your brows. Whatever’s going on in his head makes you uneasy. You think about saying something, breaking the silence, but a firm, heavy hand lands on your thigh. His thumb traces lazily circles over your jeans. You sigh softly, quietly hating yourself for the way your clit is already throbbing.

“Not that easily distracted, huh?” he teases, voice low and dark. You recognize the tone well. You heard it last night when he snuck into your room.

“Nope,” you reply, popping the p. 

Eyes glued to the road, you control your breathing as Joel’s hand snakes up your leg. Nearly brushing your clothed center with his thumb, he moves his hand to the valley where your thighs meet. Unconsciously, you part your legs for him and he chuckles.

“Y’wanna test it? Play a little game to see if you’re right?” Joel asks, giving your thigh a tight squeeze.

You run your tongue along your top teeth, sucking them and shaking your head. Whatever he has in mind is a bad idea, you know that, but he has a way of making you think with your pussy and not your head. The weight of his hand on your thigh alone feels intoxicating and each time he strokes your plush skin with his thumb, you feel yourself getting closer and closer to giving in.

When Joel’s fingers make light contact with your clit through your jeans, you shudder slightly and your breath hitches. Joel hums next to you, satisfied with himself, and cups your mound before smacking your pussy. You hold in a whimper, biting your bottom lip. 

“C’mon, sweetheart. I think she wants to play with me.” Joel’s voice is syrupy, dripping with lust. It shoots right to your core. “Bet she’s already real wet for me.”

“Fuck,” you mutter under your breath. You glance over at Joel and his eyes look impossibly dark. He rubs your clit through your jeans and you know it’s over. You’re going to give in. “What do I get when I win?” 

“Don’t go gettin’ ahead of yourself. Let’s just see if you can be a good girl for me.”

“Joel, I’m not doing shit for you unless you tell me what I’m getting out of it.”

A sharp blow lands on your pussy and you yelp, gripping the steering wheel so tightly that it makes your palms ache. 

“Not off to a good start,” he says, moving his hand away from your pussy. He fumbles with the button of your jeans and the zipper; the angle is awkward and you get a kick out of watching Joel struggle. He’s usually so smooth. Once he gets it, he taps your leg and instructs, “Lift.”

You shoot him a sideways glance, trying not to take your eyes off the road for too long, but you do it, lifting your hips so Joel can slide your jeans down. Almost immediately, you fuck up and press the gas way too hard, the truck jolting forward. Joel puts a hand on your lower belly as if he were your seatbelt.

Much to your surprise, he doesn’t say anything, but you’re still holding your breath. Heat creeps across your face as you think about how ridiculous you must look sitting in the driver’s seat with your jeans down just past your knees, soaked underwear still on. Joel’s gaze weighs on you, his eyes dragging up and down your body, taking all of you in. He unbuckles his seatbelt to move closer to you. Brave move all things considered, you think. 

“Knew she’d be fuckin’ soaked,” Joel growls, running two thick fingers up and down the center of your panties. He leans forward to get a better look at the wet spot that’s formed. “Look how bad she wants me.”

You inhale sharply, knowing damn well that if you were to look down at the mess between your legs, you’d swerve off the road. Instead, you focus on what’s in front of you. Your hand gripping the wheel, the sun tucking itself behind the trees, the broken concrete. 

“I have to focus, remember?” you lilt.

Joel doesn’t respond with words, no. He just shoves two fingers inside of you without moving your panties, pushing the fabric into your leaking slit. With the barrier preventing him from going deep, it’s not enough to make you feel satisfied, but you let out a whimper as if you’re telling him more, more, more. You fight the urge to close your eyes, something you normally would do to focus on the feeling of Joel. If there’s anything that rivals Joel’s touch, it’s the satisfaction of winning. 

When he pulls his fingers out of you, he moves to your clit, rubbing precise circles on your swollen bud. The pressure is perfect and you whine, pushing your hips into Joel’s touch while also doing your best to stay in line. Although it’s not like it matters. No one else is, thankfully, on the road. You’d have bigger problems than your bad driving.

Joel picks up the pace, massaging your clit and rolling it between his fingers. You’re nearly panting at this point and very much struggling to drive well, but you manage to focus on avoiding potholes and debris. 

“Doin’ so well for me. I’m sorta surprised,” he rasps. Joel hits your cunt once—hard—and you whine. “Usually so fuckin’ brainless when I’m touchin’ you.”

“You’re such an asshole,” you mumble under your breath between moans. “Maybe I should drive us off the road.”

“But then you wouldn’t be able to come and this whore of a cunt is makin’ a mess of your pretty panties,” he says, his voice drenched in condescension as he pulls the waistband of your underwear, letting it go and snap back into place. “I think ya need it.”

You hold back a strangled whine at his filthy words and you catch a glimpse of a smug smirk on his face, knowing damn well what he’s doing to you. 

“Say it,” he demands. “Tell me how bad you wanna come.”

Shaking your head, you clench your jaw and clutch the steering wheel like it’s the last thing tethering you to earth. You do want to come. You want to completely ruin your panties. You want to moan and whine so Joel tells you how pretty you sound. You want him to call you a good girl. Every time you give in, you think you might hate him, but you love it. You can’t get enough of Joel Miller and his stupid, dirty mouth. 

Joel pulls his hand off of your pussy and leans back in his seat. Your eyes go wide as you turn your head to look at him, abandoning the road in front of you.

“What are you doing?” you ask, hoping that your voice doesn’t sound as desperate as you feel.

He shrugs and stares straight ahead. “Not going to touch you ‘til you say it.”

You look out the windshield once again, reminding yourself that you are, in fact, in control of a vehicle that weighs a few thousand pounds. Plus, you want to win. You want to come, badly, but you also want to win. You can do both, right? It’ll mean admitting it, saying what he wants to hear. What he already knows.

“I want to come,” you mutter and it’s barely audible. 

“What was that, sweetheart? Couldn’t hear you.”

“Joel,” you say with a groan and an eye roll, “I want to come. Okay? I want to come, so make me come.”

“D’you think you’re in charge?” he snaps, turning to look at you again. You, sitting there exposed, with your pants down and wet underwear. “Think you can make demands? I don’t have to make you come.”

“I know, but you want to and fuck, I did what you asked.”

“So damn bratty when you’re not getting what you want,” he grumbles. 

You do your best to bite back a smile, noticing that he didn’t deny that he wants to make you come. Knowing Joel Miller wants you as bad as you want him makes you shift in your seat in an attempt to quell the ache between your legs. 

“Please, Joel,” you say softly. “I want you to make me come.”

Joel sighs, like it’s an inconvenience to touch you, but he leans over, spreading your thighs further apart with force; the movement nearly makes your foot slide off the gas pedal. With two fingers, he moves your panties to the side and holds them open, finally making contact with your bare cunt as he dips a finger inside of you. It’s shallow and quick, but enough to make you sigh in pleasure. Now that he’s gathered your slick, he circles your pulsing clit. 

“Oh my god,” you whine as he speeds up. Joel knows your body so well, knows exactly what to do to make your legs tremble. “F-Fuck, thank you.”

Humming in response, he keeps the pressure and pace steady. You can feel your orgasm building low in your belly, your legs shaking as you try to maintain a consistent speed while also avoiding potholes. Driving has never been harder and you sort of hate him for this, but you really can’t when he’s making you feel so damn good.

Out of the corner of your eye, you see Joel’s free hand move and you turn your head fully to look over. Joel’s palming his hard cock through his jeans, the fabric straining against his bulge. His eyes are fixed on your pussy, wet and wanting, and all he can hear is your panting that’s interrupted by moans. He doesn’t even notice that you’re staring at him, eyes completely neglecting the road, until you mumble a holy shit under your breath. 

“Don’t fuckin’ look at me,” he practically barks, slapping your clit which only heightens your pleasure. “Eyes on the damn road.”

The gruffness of his voice spurs you on and you’re about to tumble over the edge. Your orgasm is so close that your breathing is uneven. Still, you manage to goad him on with your eyes trained on his hand that gropes his own cock.

“Or what?” you ask, your voice sing-songy and dripping with lust.

You’re about to come when Joel snatches his hand away and grabs your jaw, ripping your eyes away from him and forcing you to look forward. He completely ruins your orgasm.

“Or I won’t fuckin’ touch you. Use your damn head,” he growls.

“I was so close, Joel,” you complain, shifting in your seat like it’ll give you any sort of relief. You realize you sound like a petulant child as you whine, but you can’t seem to give a fuck, so desperate to come.

“Whose fault is that?” 

“Mine,” you mumble, knowing that if you don’t take the blame he’ll let you sit in your frustration. 

Joel nods and hums in acknowledgement. You’re staring straight ahead, not daring to look at him, when you hear him unbutton and unzip his jeans. Flicking your eyes over ever so slightly so he doesn’t see, you catch a glimpse at his hard dick that’s been freed from his boxers. He begins stroking himself and your chest tightens with desire, your lips parting instinctively. You could drool just thinking about the weight of his cock on your tongue.

“Now I wanna hear you beg for it, baby. Tell me you’re sorry. Tell me how bad ya want it,” he rasps.

Part of you wants to fight him on it, but you need to come so bad you can’t even bring yourself to argue. 

“Please, Joel,” you say, wiggling in your seat, “I’m sorry. I-I was…I was a bad girl.”

You’re not sure what possesses you to call yourself a bad girl because you know Joel is never going to let it go, but you try not to kick yourself for it. 

“Shit,” he grumbles, low and gravelly. Joel’s strokes himself faster. “Say it again.”

“I’m sorry for being a bad girl. Touch me, please,” you beg. “I swear I’ll be good for you.”

The groan he lets out is from somewhere deep inside his chest and in your periphery, you notice that he’s still jerking himself off. For a moment, you thought he had come by the sound that came out of him. Joel obliges and reaches over to shove two of his thick fingers into your cunt. With his palm against your clit, you begin rutting into his hand, desperate to chase your lost orgasm again. 

Joel leans over, lets go of his cock, and sticks his free hand toward you. 

“Spit,” he commands with an open hand. 

You glance at him for a second to see if he’s serious. With a furrowed brow, parted lips, and eyes so dark you feel like you could get sucked into them like a black hole, you know he’s serious. Dead serious. Spit pools in your mouth before you let it fall into his hand, doing your best to keep your eyes on the road even though you want to look at his fucked out face so badly. 

Joel says something under his breath, but it’s hard to decipher what over the sound of his fingers fucking your cunt and the wet glide of his hand on his cock. You think it sounded like a thank you, but there’s no way you heard him correctly. 

“Bein’ a good girl now, huh?” That sounds more like Joel. “You’ll do whatever I say when you’re needy like this. My pretty, desperate whore.”

Even though it was followed by desperate and whore, he still called you pretty. Better yet, he called you his. Your face and neck get hot from the compliment and your impending orgasm. 

“Uh-huh,” you whimper, grinding into his palm. The pressure that was snatched from you before quickly returns. “Joel, I’m going to—”

“Alright now, fuck yourself on my fingers. Come f’me, sugar,” he encourages, plunging himself deeper into you. 

You unravel as your orgasm hits you like a freight train and high-pitched moans claw their way out of you. Clenching around Joel’s fingers and slamming on the brakes, your trembling legs close around Joel’s hand, trapping him between your thighs. It takes everything in you not to close your eyes.

“‘Atta girl. S’good, sweetheart,” Joel says through grit teeth as he massages his shaft.

Abruptly, you pull over on the shoulder, all gravel and debris. If you could think straight, you’d be worried about popping a tire. You put the car into park and throw your head back on the headrest. Letting your head loll to the side, you finally get a good look at Joel. His cheeks are flushed and mouth is slightly agape as he continues to stroke his dick. When he notices you staring at him, he pulls his fingers out of you. 

“Open,” he commands. His voice is low and firm in the most delicious way.

Once you part your lips and stick your tongue out, Joel puts one of his digits, coated in your juices, in your mouth. You wrap your lips around his finger and close your eyes, humming as you taste yourself. He pulls his finger out of your mouth with an obscene pop. The other finger that was buried in you goes into his mouth as he plays with himself. He sucks it clean and you feel your juices leak out of you at the sight.

You have to have him. You have to.

Leaning over the middle console, you go to wrap your lips around the red, leaking tip of his cock when he grabs you by the hair. 

“No.”

“No?” you ask, slowly and obviously confused. 

“No,” he repeats. “Ya don’t get my cock, baby.” 

“No?” Furrowing your eyebrows, you sit up and stare at him incredulously. “Well, why the fuck not?”

“‘Cause you slammed on the brakes. Y’were distracted,” he states matter-of-factly like you’re an idiot for even asking.

You let out a dry laugh and lean back into your seat, pulling up your pants. The whole time you’re doing this, Joel continues to chase his own release. 

“You’re un-fucking-believable. I was coming. I was doing what you said to do,” you defend yourself.

“Wasn’t the point of the game. Point of the game was to not be distracted.”

You shake your head and turn away from him, crossing your arms. You realize you look childish, but that doesn’t stop you from staring out the front windshield, ignoring the man next to you who sounds closer to his orgasm every second.

“No, c’mon. Look at me,” he demands between ragged breaths. “Couldn’t keep your damn eyes off of me earlier. So right here, look right here.”

Joel grabs your jaw and makes you look at him, your eyes locked on his blown out pupils. 

“Eyes on me, baby.” 

You listen. You always do. Joel’s chest heaves up and down as he gets closer to coming and he looks beautiful like that, with his brows drawn tightly together and a sheen of sweat on his forehead. His hand cradles your face as he pries your jaw open with his thumb, sticking it in your hot, wet mouth. You clasp around him and suck. This does him in, and he spills all over his hand as he groans. You can’t look away, completely mesmerized by the mess dripping down his shaft and rough hands. 

“Fuck,” he says with a sharp exhale. 

He pulls his thumb out from your mouth and gathers some of his cum on his index finger. Before he even lifts his hand to you, you open your mouth expectantly. Joel smirks at you as he pushes his finger into your mouth. Joel always knows what you want and to some extent, you always know what he wants. You suck until there’s nothing left.

“Fuck,” you repeat back to him, nodding and wiping some spit off of your lower lip with the back of your hand.

Joel’s hand drops and he tenderly rubs circles on your thigh, letting his hand rest there. Your breath hitches at the contact. It’s soft, sweet, and surprising. Both of you sit in silence for a few minutes, trying to catch your breath and come down from your highs. Eventually, Joel squeezes your thigh before pulling away and reaches into the glove compartment and pulls out napkins to clean himself up. Once he tucks himself back into his boxers and buttons his jeans, you slide closer to him and shove his arm.

“What?”

“Move,” you reply. “I don’t want to drive anymore. Someone tired me out.”

Joel rolls his eyes and shakes his head. Never afraid to show his annoyance with you. Even so, he gets out of the car and you slide into the passenger seat. 

Back on the road, Joel’s dead silent, staring ahead and acting like nothing happened. Maybe it’s the nature of the situation, of fooling around in the car, but you feel like you’re missing something. There’s not the weight of Joel’s body on yours, no comforting touch, no kisses on your neck. 

“Do you even like me?” you ask suddenly. Goddamn it, you think to yourself. Why the fuck would you ask that?

Joel glances over at you with one eyebrow raised, looking surprised by your question. One of his arms is perched on the side of the door, his hand resting on his cheek, while the other hand grasps the steering wheel tightly. His knuckles are almost white from the grip.

“Enough to deal with your ass for a week,” he says, looking back at the road. It’s Joel, so he sounds grumpy, but there’s also some lightness to his tone and you don’t know what to make of it.

“I’ll take it,” you reply, “but for the record, I hate you.”

“No, you don’t.”

No. You don’t.

You shake your head and lean against the window, closing your eyes while a smile creeps on your face against your will. 

Joel’s looking at you. You can feel it.