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hatethysinner · 1 month ago

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ᴍᴀɴ ᴛᴜʀɴꜱ ᴀɴɪᴍᴀʟ

ʀᴇᴍᴍɪᴄᴋ x ʙʟᴀᴄᴋ!ꜰᴇᴍ!ᴀᴄᴄᴏᴍᴘʟɪᴄᴇ!ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ: He loved you too much to share. So he took everything else. Your friends, your family, your freedom, all slowly melted away. Now it's just him, the house, and you. And he promises that's all you'll ever need.

ᴡᴄ: 15.2k

ᴀ/ɴ: title taken directly from this incredible song. i loved and hated every second of writing this but i just NEEDED to get it out of my system. while i don't think i particularly delved into anything dd:dne (PLEASE MIND THE WARNINGS AND DNI IF DARK FICS AREN'T YOUR CUP OF TEA <3), i definitely channeled my most unhinged ao3 reads for this. this'll probably be the only time i write a full fic of dark!remmick, but if this really blows up i may actually consider doing more. as always, white girls i promise you can have your fun with this too ❤️. enjoy reading divas! i don't do taglists personally, so just follow me if you want to be updated when i post c:

ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: unapologetically dark fic(!!!), exposition dump, obsession, murder, body disposal, vampirism, biting, blood, bloodplay, dark!remmick on steroids, lovebombing, manipulation, isolation, toxic relationship (somewhat established), emotionally/mentally abusive behavior (!!!), threats of violence, codepency, lowkey unreliable narrator, extremely dubious consent (!!!), noncon (!!!), heavily abused power imbalance, dom!remmick, sub!reader, reader is going through it, remmick loves tormenting her, angst, praise kink, light degradation kink, breeding kink, proper use of a gold chain during sex, babytrapping (!!!), p in v, cunnilingus, fingering, overstimulation, dacryphilia, biting, sadism, monsterfucking, religious mentions, loss of virginity, no happy ending, divider usage, written on demon time

You were the kind of girl folks counted on.

Always had been.

Ran your daddy’s general store with a steady hand and a sharp head for numbers. Never late to open, never short on change. You knew what folks needed before they asked. Darning needles, cane syrup, extra tobacco for the older men who swore they were quitting but never really tried. Folks came in more for you than the goods, if they were honest. You smiled easy. Listened well. Learned their names, their kids’ names, and how they liked their goods bagged.

You had a tight circle of friends, girls you’d known since church bonnets and petticoats. Played games on the porch after Sunday school and swapped lipstick behind the store when your daddy wasn’t looking. They called you the smart one. The grounded one. The kind that could hold a whole household together with one hand while balancing the day’s receipts in the other. They said if any of them were gonna marry a good man, it’d be you.

But somehow, that wasn’t the way the road bent.

You were always the one they leaned on. The one who helped fix their hems and cooled their heartbreaks and made sure they got home safe. But when they talked about love, the soft parts, the burning ones, the kind of hunger that made your hands tremble, they never looked at you.

You weren’t the girl men chased after. Just the one who made things easier.

And still, somehow, you were the one he chose.

He came in on a Tuesday.

Dead of night, just before closing. Long shadows bleeding in through the windows, sun already tucked behind the treeline, store mostly empty save for the sound of your broom brushing across the floorboards. You’d flipped the sign but hadn’t locked up yet. Wasn’t late enough to feel nervous.

Not until the bell over the door chimed, and he stepped through.

A white man.

Tall. Pale. Not from around here. And not the type of man who came this far across town, not without a reason. He didn’t belong on your side of the county line. Not unless he was lost. Not unless he meant trouble.

But if he was aware of how out of place he looked, he didn’t show it. He walked in easy. Calm. Hands in his coat pockets and a smile that curved slow and deliberate. He looked right at you, only you, and said,

“Evenin’, miss.”

Polite. Warm. Like this was a place, a side of town, he frequented.

He asked for flour. Then matches. Then something sweet. Said he had a long road ahead of him, but never said where it led. Moved like he had all the time in the world. Studied the shelves like they held more than goods. Like he was trying to learn something about you in the way you stocked your soap and stacked your salt.

His accent was Southern, but different. Smooth, syrupy, with a twist to his vowels, like every word had traveled through someplace older, foreign, before landing in his mouth. He didn’t speak like a man passing through. Spoke like a man digging roots. And when he left, he touched two fingers to the brim of a hat he didn’t wear, like tipping it to you was instinct.

You locked the door behind him. Stood for a moment, broom still in hand, wondering what to make of it.

Then he came back the next night.

And the next.

Always right before closing. Always alone.

He brought little things each time. His name, Remmick, the second time around. An odd name, you thought.

A ribbon he said reminded him of your favorite dress, even though you hadn’t told him which one it was. A book of poems with pages marked and underlined, left at the counter with a quiet “Thought ya might like this one.” A jar of thick, dark honey that looked more like molasses, wrapped in cloth and twine like a gift.

Remmick never lingered too long. Never pushed for more than you were willing to give. Just watched. Listened. Laid compliments at your feet like offerings. Not greasy or crude, but precise. Gentle. Like he meant every word and had studied you long enough to know they’d land.

Said you had a voice that sounded like morning.

Said you were the only person in town worth a real conversation.

Said you smiled like it meant something.

You rolled your eyes. Called him too much.

But you didn’t tell him to stop.

No one had ever looked at you like that before.

Like you were worth slowing down for.

And piece by piece, the walls you’d built without knowing cracked beneath the weight of his gaze.

And slowly, your world started to tilt.

Not all at once.

Just by degrees.

Like a house shifting its weight before the foundation gives.

Your friends never met him. Not once. But they could tell something had changed. The way you smiled at nothing when they were mid-sentence. The way your gaze would drift toward the door, or to the windows, or to some place in your head they couldn’t reach. You weren’t sharing like you used to. Not your stories, not your time.

Still, they were happy for you. At first. Said it must be something special, if you were keeping it close. But even then, there was a pause in their voices when they said it. A little squint in the eyes. A little too much emphasis on the word special.

They’d always said you were the one who’d settle down first. The one with the good head. The one who’d choose someone kind and steady, someone who knew what it meant to take care of a woman like you.

But you never gave them a name.

Never said what he looked like, what he did, where he came from.

And eventually, they stopped asking.

Your parents noticed the shift too.

Your mama stopped by more often. Just to check in, she'd say. But her voice always started a little high-pitched when she'd talk. Like she could see something in you she didn’t have the words for. Your daddy didn’t say much at all, but you could feel his silence stretching between you every time he stopped by the shop and found you humming without noticing, sorting flour bags with a smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes.

You told them everything was fine.

Told yourself the same.

And it was. He said it was.

Remmick always had a way of making the world sound simpler than it was.

He made you feel beautiful. Sharp. Like the only person in the room worth speaking to.

Like his person.

And the things he said. God, the things he said.

Said you had the kind of soul people wrote songs about. That no one else had ever understood you the way he did. That all your life, people had been trying to water you down. Make you smaller, quieter, more convenient.

But he saw you.

And you believed him.

Of course you did.

He didn’t like your friends, though. Said they talked too much. Said they didn’t get you. Said you always came back from seeing them with your shoulders a little tighter, your voice a little more unsure. That they didn’t want you to grow. That they only loved you when you stayed the version of yourself they could manage.

He said it so sweetly, like it hurt him to say it.

Like it was breaking his heart.

And when he asked, gently, softly, with his fingers stroking the inside of your wrist, if you could spend a little less time with them, it didn’t feel like control.

It felt like care.

He missed you, after all.

He needed you.

And you wanted to be needed.

God help you, you did.

So you let them drift.

One by one.

Until their names felt strange on your tongue.

He said your parents were too involved. Too nosy. Said you were grown now. Said their worries weren’t yours to carry. And when you stopped accepting your mama's visits, when you quit your job at your daddy's general store despite the heartbroken look on his face, it didn’t feel like abandonment. Not then.

It felt like love.

Like a cocoon being spun around something precious.

When he asked you to come stay with him, it didn’t feel like a decision.

Just the next step in the story he was writing for you both.

The manor was beautiful. Isolated. A pristine, white-columned thing hidden deep in the Delta, so far from town it didn’t even register on some maps. Every plank of wood polished. Every curtain soft and silent in the breeze. The kind of place where your voice echoed even when you whispered. Where the sky stretched endless above you, dark and wide and brimming with stars you hadn’t seen in years.

He said it would be safer this way. Quieter. Easier to breathe.

You believed him.

You believed everything he said.

And he rewarded that belief.

The room he gave you was sun-soaked and clean, decorated with strange antiques and velvet-upholstered chairs that looked too expensive to sit in but felt right under you. He stocked the closet with dresses in your size before you ever mentioned needing new clothes. Or giving him your measurements. Set your favorite tea on the windowsill beside a stack of your favorite books.

“Just figured ya’d need some comfort, darlin’,” he said, planting featherlight kisses on your hands. “A woman like you deserves softness.”

You told yourself it was kind. Thoughtful.

You didn’t think to ask how he knew what you liked.

Not until later.

By then, it had already begun.

The soft steps outside your door at night.

The feeling of being watched. Not cruelly. Not even threateningly. But deliberately. Like the world outside had narrowed down to two hearts and one house, and all of it was his.

He made sure you loved him. Or at least that you needed him too badly to leave.

And if someone asked you when the line was crossed,

You couldn’t say.

You never even saw it pass beneath your feet.

Until the night he came home with blood on his shirt.

Not a smear. Not a spot.

Soaked.

Dark and wet and clinging, like the cotton had drunk its fill and was still greedy. His cuffs were stiff with it. His collar painted red. There were flecks on his throat, droplets drying like freckles, and his hands dripped steadily onto the hardwood, drawing crimson lines in a path that led straight to you.

He didn’t speak right away.

Just stood there in the doorway of the sitting room, chest rising slow. Watching you.

There was no panic in his eyes. No guilt. Just a feverish gleam, like he’d returned from something holy and wasn’t quite ready to step down from the altar.

You froze where you were. Half-curled on the sofa, book in hand, mouth parting without sound.

He stepped inside and told you the man's name. Simply. As if announcing the weather.

You blinked.

He smiled. Small. Serene.

“Didn’t suffer long.”

You screamed.

Loud. Unfiltered. Scrambled back until your spine hit the armrest, and the book hit the floor with a thud that didn’t register beneath the roar of your pulse.

He didn’t flinch.

Didn’t apologize.

Just watched you with that same slow-burning affection he always wore, like this was something you would come to understand in time. Like it was natural. Expected. A truth you’d learn to live inside.

When your voice cracked from shouting no, when your sobs doubled over into heaves, he knelt.

Right there. Blood and all.

He didn’t bother to wash his hands first. Didn’t even take off his coat. He just knelt at your feet like a knight returning from battle, like something ancient and humbled and sure of its place.

“Don’t cry, sugar,” he hummed, reaching for you.

You pulled back.

Didn’t matter.

He closed the gap gently, slowly, as if calming a startled animal.

“Wasn’t for no reason,” he said, voice low and honey-thick. “Ya believe that, don’t ya?”

You shook your head. Weak.

And still, when his bloodied hand cupped your face, you didn’t pull away fast enough.

“There’s things ya don’t know,” he whispered. “Things I can’t tell ya yet. But ya don’t need to know them to be mine.”

You tried to twist free. Failed. His grip was firm, but not cruel.

He pressed his forehead to yours.

The wet heat of him radiated through your clothes as he leaned in close, shoulders still trembling with leftover adrenaline. You could smell it. Copper and something else. Something rich. Like old rust and soil and bone. Like the breath of something deep in the earth that hadn’t surfaced in a long, long time.

He exhaled slow.

“I ain’t want to scare ya,” he said. “But I had to show ya.”

You didn’t speak.

You couldn’t.

“Because this is me,” he continued. “This is what I am. And if ya love me, if ya mean what y’said, then ya have to see all of me.”

“I never said I loved you,” you almost answered.

But the words didn’t come.

Because his hand moved then.

Not to your neck. Not to hurt.

But to your collar.

He brushed the fabric aside, dragging the edge of his sleeve across your skin.

And the blood marked you.

He wiped it deliberately. Across your jaw. The hollow of your throat. The slope of your collarbone.

You gasped, jerking instinctively, but he only shushed you like he was soothing a frightened child.

“Shh,” he cooed. “Just want ya to wear a little of me. That’s all.”

His voice was trembling now. With restraint. With something else.

“I’m not angry,” he added, and it was true. “I’d never hurt ya. Not ever. You’re the only thing in this world I couldn’t break if I tried.”

And you believed him.

That was the worst part.

He leaned back finally, just enough to look you full in the face.

You were streaked in red.

Your cheeks damp with tears.

And he smiled.

Not wide.

Not cruel.

Just soft.

Like it was all going to be okay.

“Y’don’t have to help,” he said. “Not tonight.”

You didn’t answer.

He rose, slow and deliberate, and walked to the kitchen to wash. You sat frozen. Couldn’t bring yourself to look down at your hands.

When the water ran, you heard him humming again. That same lullaby cadence he always used when he thought you were asleep. And when he called your name, voice gentle, it wasn’t a summons.

It was a question.

And you answered.

You stepped into the kitchen on legs that didn’t feel like yours, and you helped him mop the floor. Scrub the blood from the baseboards. You didn’t ask what he did with the body.

You didn’t want to know.

But you watched the way he scrubbed his nails clean, the way his eyes softened whenever he looked at you.

And you didn’t leave.

Not that night.

Not the next.

Now, months later, the blood doesn’t shock you like it used to. You don’t ask who. You don’t ask why. You just wait by the door with towels and vinegar and steady hands.

You still don’t watch him do it. Never have.

But he always leaves the door cracked open.

Just a little.

Just in case.

The house is quiet now. Filled with the sound of dripping water, your own heartbeat, and the hushed, weary creak of the manor’s bones.

He doesn’t pretend to be human anymore.

Not around you.

He lets the teeth stay long, the nails a little sharper. Lets you see the red light behind his eyes when the moonlight hits right.

And still, he kisses you goodnight.

Brushes your curls back from your face.

Tells you you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to him.

And when he says it, you believe him.

You are the best thing he’s ever had.

And he’s made damn sure you’ll never leave.

You woke to the feeling of being watched.

Not the vague kind. Not a creeping hunch. No. This was the real kind. Deep and certain, rooted in the marrow of your bones like an old warning. It had shape now, weight. You knew it as easily as breath.

And sure enough, when your lashes parted and the room slowly unblurred, there he was.

Remmick stood over you like some towering monument carved out of shadow, tall and still and all but glowing in the thin streak of dawnlight filtering in through the curtain seam. His shirt hung half-open, pale chest streaked faintly with water. He must’ve bathed again before slipping in. His hair, dark and heavy, was still damp at the ends, dripping in slow intervals down the edge of his throat.

His jaw was slightly parted. And at the corner of his mouth, just barely catching the light, sat a thick bead of drool.

Not blood.

Just spit.

But too much of it. An unnatural amount.

Like he’d been watching you sleep for a long, long while and hadn’t once closed his mouth.

Sizing you up.

You didn’t flinch.

Not anymore.

Instead, you shifted slowly beneath the blankets, tucking your arms beneath your cheek. Your voice was low, rough with sleep. “You been there long?”

His eyes lit like someone had sparked a fuse. And then that crooked grin curled across his face, proud and toothy. Too many teeth for such a soft expression.

“Couldn’t help it,” he drawled, voice slow and lazy at the edges. “Ya look so pretty when you sleep.”

You huffed quietly. It wasn’t really a laugh, but it wasn’t a complaint either. You didn’t pull the blankets higher. Didn’t hide. Just turned your face into the pillow to block the light.

Behind you, the mattress dipped under his weight.

He climbed in slow, but sure. As he always did, never asking if you needed the space. You felt the heat of him even before he touched you. Always too cold when he wasn’t holding you, always too much when he was.

One arm slipped under your waist. The other folded over your middle. And then he was there, wrapped around you like a vise, breath ghosting against your neck, chest rising and falling in sync with your own. You could feel the edge of his belt buckle press into your lower back, the weight of his thigh hooked over yours, the solidness of his body where it pressed along every inch of you.

You should’ve felt caged.

Sometimes you did.

But this morning, you just felt still. Heavy. Grounded.

He kissed the back of your shoulder. Once. Then again, slower.

You closed your eyes and listened.

“Made breakfast,” he murmured against your skin. “Berries. Biscuits. Got that jam ya like. And tea. Not the bitter one. The kind with the hibiscus.”

You didn’t answer right away.

Didn’t move either.

Just lay there with the weight of him curled around your body, his words threading through the fog in your mind. Your limbs felt like wet cotton, and your heart… well, it didn’t race anymore when he held you like this. It just kept time. Careful. Steady.

Some mornings were like this.

Gentle. Sweet. The world in perfect balance, even if it was only for a breath.

Others weren’t.

There were days where something in him just… shifted.

No warning. No clear offense. Just a quiet closing of the door between you. A change in the air.

He wouldn’t look at you.

Wouldn’t speak.

You’d move through the house like a ghost in your own skin, tiptoeing around the silence. You'd replay every moment from the days before in your head like a broken record, trying to pinpoint the crack. The wrong word. The wrong breath. You whispered his name sometimes, just to see if he’d flinch.

He never did.

And the longer it lasted, the more desperate you got.

You’d sit at the edge of the bed, fingers clenched in your lap, watching the door anxiously. Or trail behind him through the house, trying to make yourself useful. Fixing his tea, folding the blankets, laying out the towels just the way he liked them. Hoping he’d notice. Hoping it’d be enough.

It never was.

Sometimes you cried.

Most of the time, you did.

Not loud. Just soft and constant, curled into a corner of the couch, the fabric beneath you growing damp from the weight of it all. You didn’t ask him to come back. You just wanted him to see.

And eventually, once the sun had vanished and the stars were out, once you were past the tears and into the shaking, silent part of grief, he would return.

Not from outside.

Just from wherever he’d gone inside himself.

He’d find you there, face raw, eyes swollen, mouth trembling with all the things you couldn’t say.

And he’d kneel.

Press his hands to your knees. Pull your face up to his.

He used to wipe your tears, once. With the pads of his thumbs. Gentle. Sweet.

But not anymore.

Now he licked them.

Dragged his tongue across your cheeks, pleased sounds always escaping his mouth as if he was tasting a delicacy.

“Ain’t mean it,” he’d whisper. “Ain’t mean to go so cold, darlin’.”

You never asked why he did it.

You just nodded.

And let the licks turn into kisses.

You tried not to think too hard on those days.

Because when he was good to you?

He was perfect.

Like now.

You felt his fingers shift under your nightdress, splaying wide over your stomach like he was anchoring himself with the shape of you.

“Ya smell like sunlight,” he whispered, almost in awe. “Like warmth. Like somethin’ I wanna keep forever.”

He didn’t say it to get a rise out of you.

He meant it.

He always meant it.

You could feel the edge of a smile pull at your mouth, but it didn’t quite reach the surface. It never did on mornings like this. You couldn’t tell if it was dread or hope that kept it from blooming fully.

He kissed your hair.

“Ya awake?”

You gave the smallest nod.

He chuckled, breath warm and steady against your ear.

“Come eat, baby. Gotta keep ya strong.”

You nodded again.

And let him pull you out of bed.

Because that’s what you did on good days.

You let yourself be loved.

He led you down to the kitchen like you were the only woman in the world who’d ever deserved to be walked anywhere.

His palm rested against the small of your back, guiding, not pushing, and he moved with slow, deliberate steps like each one was part of some silent ceremony only he knew the meaning of. You didn’t rush. You never did, not with him. It didn’t feel right to.

The kitchen was already warm with sunlight slanting through the curtains, soft and hazy, painting the wooden floorboards gold. The stove clicked gently as the kettle cooled. Something citrusy hung in the air alongside the hibiscus. Orange peel or lemon zest, maybe. It was always hard to tell with him. He had a way of combining scents until they no longer smelled like anything but home.

He pulled your chair out for you.

Waited for you to sit.

Then served your plate himself.

He’d made the biscuits from scratch. Just the way you liked them, topped with honey and butter. A few berries had burst open on the side of the pan, their juices bleeding into the crust like bruises, and he placed those pieces carefully at the edge of your plate, like he knew you’d want them last.

There were eggs, too. Soft-scrambled, barely set. And jam. The good kind, dark and smooth and homemade.

He didn’t eat, of course. He never did.

But he sat across from you, arms folded on the table, chin resting on one hand as he watched.

Not like a man waiting for praise.

Like a man watching a miracle.

You didn’t feel self-conscious anymore. Not the way you used to. Not even when he studied the curve of your fingers or the way your mouth parted slightly with each bite. Not when his eyes lingered on the bridge of your nose, the full shape of your lips, the high frame of your cheekbones. Features that other men overlooked, or worse, tried to make smaller. Not when he traced your every movement like he was trying to memorize it.

Just warm.

Maybe a little shy.

But warm.

“You’re gonna spoil me,” you said after a few moments, tone light and quiet.

His mouth curved. “Good.”

You raised a brow, chewing. “That all you gonna say?”

He leaned forward slightly, elbows on the table. “What else is there? A woman like ya’s worth spoilin’. Worth feedin’. Worth watchin’. I get more outta sittin’ across from ya than most men get in a lifetime.”

Your breath caught.

You didn’t mean for it to. You knew he liked that kind of reaction. Thrived off it. But still, it happened. He had a way of saying things that left you undone. Like he meant them. Like there wasn’t a doubt in his mind that it was true.

You swallowed and looked down at your plate.

Let yourself smile.

Just a little.

That was the danger of mornings like this. The sweetness. The calm.

You’d forget, just for a moment, what he was.

Let your guard slip.

And he’d let you. That was the worst part.

He never forced it.

Never had to.

“I’ll be headin’ out later,” he said, finally breaking the stillness. “Just before sundown.”

You glanced up. “Errands?”

He nodded. “Might be a while.”

You waited, hoping he’d elaborate.

He didn’t.

You didn’t press.

Not because you trusted him, not completely, but because you wanted to. Needed to. Trust was a gift, and he treated it like one. Collected it. Stroked it. Cradled it in his arms like something he’d stolen.

He reached across the table and brushed his knuckles down the side of your face.

You leaned into it.

Didn’t mean to.

But you didn’t pull away either.

He tilted his head. Studied you.

“I’ll bring ya back somethin’ nice,” he said. “New necklace, maybe. Somethin’ that'll bring out that pretty mouth of yours.”

You blinked. “You don’t have to-”

“I want to.” His hand slid down your arm, resting over your wrist. “Ya always act like ya ain’t allowed to be treated soft. But I told ya already, anybody that didn’t see your worth before me was blind.”

You didn’t respond.

You didn’t have to.

He leaned in and kissed your forehead. Soft. Gentle. Reverent.

And for a second, everything felt so normal.

So painfully, heartbreakingly normal.

Like this was just a house.

Like he was just a man.

Like you were just a girl in love, waiting for the evening to fall.

You let yourself stay in the moment a little longer.

Finished your tea in slow sips.

Let him watch you.

And prayed that the quiet wouldn’t turn. That tomorrow wouldn’t shift. That tonight, God willing, tonight would still be kind.

You knew better than to believe in quiet mornings.

Not here. Not with him.

Still, the stillness of the day had tricked you. It had crept in through the floorboards and settled into your chest, soft as fog, convincing you that peace might last. That today would stay gentle. Safe.

He’d been kind all morning. Sweet, even. Kissed your shoulder while you dressed. Detangled your hair with slow, worshipful hands. Called you baby in that voice like melted sugar as he danced with you to a jazz record. It had been so easy to believe in the calm, to believe he meant it.

But peace, in this house, was never given.

Only loaned.

You’d spent the day in the parlor, patching a hem that didn’t really need fixing, listening to the wind scratch against the shutters. He passed through every hour or so, always with something to say.

“Ya look so soft in this light.”

“That color’s real pretty on ya.”

Always with a kiss to your hairline. A graze of his fingers at your elbow. And you let him.

You let him.

Because it was a good day.

Until it wasn’t.

Remmick lit the lamps earlier than usual. Shadows hadn’t even grown long across the floor yet, but he moved like he couldn’t stand the dim. A low, strange hum sat under his breath. His movements were slow but measured, pressing the collar of his shirt, combing his hair with surgical care. He changed into a dark button-up, freshly pressed, the fabric stiff and lined with faint charcoal pinstripes. He didn’t fasten the top button. Let his collarbone show. The buttons themselves were a pale ivory, too round and too polished to be anything but bone.

He didn’t speak while he dressed.

Didn’t look at you, either.

But when he passed you near the kitchen door, he paused. Tilted your chin up. Kissed your forehead like a benediction. His lips were too warm, too careful.

“Be good while I’m gone,” he said.

And that was all.

The door opened hours later, at a time when you had long retired to your bedroom.

Not with a knock. Not with warning.

Just the quiet creak of the front door swinging open.

You didn’t recognize the man who entered. Not at first.

Older. White. Expensive. That was the word that came to mind first. Expensive. The coat, the cane, the posture. He moved like he owned everything he looked at, and when his eyes slid over the staircase where you watched from just out of view, he barely registered you at all.

He smelled of clean money and fragrant cologne. His voice, when he spoke, had a practiced warmth. Used to making deals, used to being obeyed.

Remmick welcomed him like an old friend. No introductions. Just a nod, and a hand at the man’s back as he ushered him toward the parlor, the two of them murmuring low between each other. You didn’t catch what was said. Didn’t want to.

You slowly closed your door.

But that didn’t stop your heart from picking up.

Didn’t stop the feeling crawling into your bones. The kind that knew this was punishment, even if you didn’t know what for.

You hadn’t said anything wrong today. Hadn’t wandered too far. Hadn’t said no.

He’d kissed your forehead. Cooked for you. Danced with you.

So why?

Why this?

You sat on the edge of your bed, hands pressed to your thighs, jaw clenched until it ached. You wanted to pace, but you knew better. He hated when you fidgeted.

Time bled slowly by. A drip of unease with every second.

Then the parlor door clicked shut.

You couldn’t hear much. Just muffled voices beneath the hum of the hallway light. At first, it was civil. Calm. Two men talking. Glasses clinking. Something poured.

You stared out your window.

And then, a sound.

It didn’t come as a cry at first. Just a thump, low and heavy.

Then another.

And then it began in earnest.

The screaming didn’t start with words. It started with breath. Ragged, sharp, begging. Then the voice rose. Screamed so hard it cracked, pleaded, cursed. The sound of it ricocheted through the walls like thunder. One drawn-out, blood-curdled no, followed by a scream that didn’t end, just collapsed.

You covered your ears.

Pressed your palms so tight it made your head ring.

But nothing could drown it out.

Your whole body trembled.

Not from shock.

From knowing this was intentional.

Because he didn’t need for you to hear it.

He wanted you to.

This was never about the man in the parlor. Not really.

It was about you.

What you’d said. Or done. Or failed to do.

You didn’t know what you were being punished for.

But you felt it, in your gut.

Your punishment had a heartbeat, a voice, a body now. And it was breaking somewhere below your feet.

The screaming stopped eventually.

But the silence that followed was worse.

Because silence didn’t end anything in this house.

It only marked the beginning of the next thing.

You waited.

Not just for the screaming to stop. Not just for the silence to settle. But long after.

You waited until the walls stopped humming with sound. Until the floorboards cooled beneath your feet. Until even the wind outside held its breath.

And then,

You heard it.

The soft groan of the parlor door unlatching. A low creak. A shift in weight across the boards.

His footsteps were quiet.

Measured.

Too soft for a man who’d just done what he’d done. Like he was walking through a church. Or a dream.

You didn’t move. Stayed curled in on yourself at the edge of your bed, arms locked around your knees, eyes fixed on the door like it might rattle open any second. It didn’t.

Not yet.

You heard the stairs instead.

One. By one.

Each step slow and steady, deliberate. Like he was giving you time.

Time to compose yourself.

Time to prepare.

Time to realize nothing was going to stop him from reaching you.

The knob turned.

You hadn’t even realized your door was unlocked.

It opened with a click and a hush, and there he was.

Standing in the threshold like a vision from a fever.

Blood soaked the front of his shirt. Thick and wet in some places, half-dried and flaking in others. It clung to his throat, painted his collarbone, pooled beneath his nails. His sleeves were still rolled, but the pale skin of his forearms was nearly lost beneath the spatter. There were streaks along his jaw where he’d tried to wipe his mouth clean. Too late. Too messy. A smear of it curved across his cheekbone like a smile.

And his claws, long, edged, still drawn, glinted in the low light of your bedside lamp.

But what knocked the breath out of your chest was his face.

Calm.

Completely, terrifyingly calm.

His eyes, those strange, shifting, ancient things, shone soft in the dim. Not wild. Not frenzied.

Just… peaceful.

“Darlin’,” he said, soft as a sigh. “Can ya come here?”

His voice sounded like the morning.

Like nothing had happened at all.

You didn’t answer.

But your body moved.

You hated it. How your limbs betrayed you. How your feet swung over the edge of the bed and touched the floor. How you stepped closer to him, one foot, then another, then another, drawn toward him like gravity had chosen sides.

He didn’t move to meet you.

Just waited.

Like he knew you would come.

And when you reached the doorway, when your bare feet kissed the hallway light, that’s when he touched you.

Both hands to your face. Fingers gentle, claws grazing soft against your cheeks.

Blood smeared warm across your skin.

You flinched.

But didn’t pull away.

His thumbs brushed just beneath your eyes. Not to wipe your tears, there weren’t any yet, but to cup the place where they would be. Where he knew they would be.

“Ya did somethin’ wrong,” he whispered. “Ain’t ya?”

That broke you.

“No,” you whispered, voice breaking.

The tears came all at once. Thick. Hot. Your chest heaved and you shook your head, hands flying up to press against his wrists. “No, please- Remmick, please, I didn’t- I can’t-”

“I know,” he said.

But his grip didn’t loosen.

Your knees nearly gave. Your breath hitched.

And he leaned in close, lips almost brushing yours.

“I’m scared,” you sobbed. “Please don’t make me-”

That’s when he said it.

Soft. Sweet.

Final.

“Y’ain’t got a choice.”

The words weren’t cruel.

Weren’t laced with threat.

They sounded like a lullaby.

And then, he kissed you.

Slow. Deep. Full of pride.

The blood on his mouth smeared onto yours, warm and metallic and thick enough to make you shudder. You didn’t kiss him back. Couldn’t. But your lips parted. And that was enough.

He made a sound, something like a purr, and pulled back, smiling like you’d just said I love you.

“There ya go,” he whispered.

Then, lower: “C’mon, now. Just a little bit of help.”

You shook your head, tears streaking your cheeks.

His thumbs smeared them. Not away. Just… further. Down your face. Into your mouth. Into the collar of your nightdress.

“Remmick, please-”

“Ya can,” he said again, voice even gentler this time. “Ya will.”

And when he kissed your forehead, it didn’t feel like comfort.

It felt like surrender.

He led you to the rear hall.

Step by step.

The floorboards creaked beneath your feet, slow and drawn out like they knew what was coming. The air back here always felt colder. Damper, too. Like the walls remembered every secret ever whispered against them.

One clawed hand pressed low to your back. Not shoving. Not dragging. Just guiding. A lover’s touch, if you ignored the sharp curve of his nails and the way they caught on the cotton of your dress.

The other hand gripped something heavy. Bundled tight in a canvas sheet. Edges stiff with dried blood. You didn’t need to ask what it was.

You didn’t want to know how long it had been wrapped like that.

You didn’t want to know anything.

“Take the feet, darlin’,” he said. Soft. Encouraging. “That’s it. There ya go.”

You hesitated.

Stared at the length of fabric that formed the shape of shins, then ankles, then shoes that had once gleamed polished and proud beneath the parlor light.

The man’s feet were cold.

You flinched as your fingers made contact. Felt the stiffness through the layers. The weight of it settled like stone in your stomach.

You choked.

Your knees bent beneath you, buckling under the weight of it, legs shaking, arms burning.

“That’s alright,” Remmick said quickly, already crouched beside you again. “You’re strong. Stronger than ya think.”

He didn’t offer to take it from you.

Didn’t let you drop it either.

Just walked backward, slow and steady, leading you through the back door as the hinges groaned open.

Outside, the air hit sharp.

You breathed it in too fast. Coughed once. The scent of blood clung to your face, your hair, your hands. And beneath it, rot. Curling at the edges of the canvas like the world had already started reclaiming him.

You swallowed hard.

Walked blind behind Remmick.

The trees pressed in around you, branches brittle with late summer’s death. Moonlight pierced the canopy in sharp slivers. The path was narrow. Familiar. You’d taken it before, but never like this.

Never carrying someone.

Remmick hummed as he walked.

Low and tuneless, like it was something he didn’t know he was doing. A sound of habit. Of focus. Of ritual.

You didn’t ask how he knew where to dig.

You didn’t ask how many times he’d done this before.

You just stood there, trembling, as he knelt in the clearing and began to carve the earth apart with his hands.

Not with a shovel.

With his claws.

They split the dirt like butter, curling soil and root alike with mechanical ease. He worked fast. Efficient. With a kind of composure, almost, like he was preparing a bed, not a grave.

You stayed frozen until he glanced up at you, face slick with sweat and moonlight.

“Almost done,” he said. “Just a little more, sugar.”

He stood.

Wiped his brow with the back of one hand, smearing dirt and blood across his temple.

Then he turned to you, lips stretched into a smile.

“C’mon,” he said gently. “Let’s lay him down.”

The canvas landed with a heavy thud.

You flinched again.

He unwrapped the top half. Not all the way. Just enough for the face to show. Slack-jawed, eyes glazed, neck at the wrong angle.

Your stomach turned.

Remmick crouched again, slipped his arms beneath the man’s shoulders.

He looked up at you. Expectant.

“Go on,” he said, nodding toward the legs.

You hesitated.

“Remmick-”

Your breath caught.

“I said, go on.”

So you did.

You took a deep breath, grasped the ankles again, and followed his count.

One, two, three.

You heaved.

He lifted.

And together, you laid him in the earth.

It wasn’t graceful.

It wasn’t clean.

You gagged once and turned away, bile stinging your throat. He didn’t chastise you. Didn’t rush you. Just stood there in the moonlight, waiting, the grave yawning at his feet.

When you finally turned back, your face pale and your hands filthy, he pressed a kiss to your temple.

“Almost done.”

The dirt came next.

Heavy, clumpy, wet.

It stuck to your fingers and your wrists, coated your forearms, gathered beneath your nails like it wanted to crawl inside you.

Remmick packed the final mound himself.

Then stood.

Brushed his hands together with a soft clap.

And turned toward you.

Smiling.

Like you’d just exchanged vows.

Like something had been sealed tonight, sacred and unbreakable.

His eyes shone in the dark, wide and wild and glowing faintly red.

He cupped your face again, blood dried into the creases of his knuckles.

“Ya did good,” he whispered. “So good f’me.”

And you didn’t correct him.

Didn’t move. Couldn't.

He reached into his coat.

The gesture was slow, deliberate. Like everything with him. He could’ve pulled out anything. A blade, a scrap of skin, a love letter scrawled in someone else’s blood, and part of you would’ve just watched, quiet and ready.

But instead, his hand came back gloved in shadow and something glinting beneath a soaked cloth.

He held it out to you. Waiting.

“I brought ya a gift,” he said, voice low and soft, almost shy. Like he was offering you a bouquet.

You didn’t answer.

Just stared.

The fabric, silk, maybe, once cream, was red now. Mottled. It clung wetly to whatever was wrapped inside, dark lines seeping into the seams.

He unwrapped it slowly.

Bit by bit.

Like unveiling something sacred.

A necklace.

Sapphire, deep and cold, surrounded by a constellation of diamonds so small and fine they looked like frozen tears. The pendant caught the moonlight, sparkled like a drop of river water in the sun.

But the chain, thin and gold, was streaked with blood. Still tacky. Still warm.

He held it up between both hands, letting the pendant sway gently between you.

“Belonged to his wife,” he said.

His eyes never left your face.

“Don’t worry. She didn’t put up much of a fight.”

Your breath hitched.

He said it like a kindness.

Like a mercy.

You didn’t ask what he meant. Not exactly. Didn’t ask if that meant she begged. Or wept. Or just stood there, quiet, waiting for her turn.

You didn’t want to know.

You never did.

He stepped closer.

The necklace still dangling in his hand, catching on his fingers. Blood smeared his palm now. Streaked down his wrist. You didn’t move as he reached up, lifted the chain, heavy and wet, and looped it behind your neck.

His fingers were careful.

Precise.

He fastened it with a soft click, the clasp brushing the nape of your neck, cold as a knife.

Then he stepped back. Just a little.

“There,” he whispered, his voice nearly trembling. “Look at ya. My beautiful girl.”

You didn’t look down.

Didn’t touch it.

You felt the weight of it though. The cold metal against your chest. The stick of half-dried blood just beneath your collarbone.

He kissed your cheek next.

Then your jaw.

Then your mouth.

Soft. Tender.

Loving.

Like a reward.

Like a promise.

You didn’t kiss him back.

Didn’t turn your face away, either.

You stood there like a statue. A monument to something twisted and holy. Let him praise you. Let him touch you. Let him cover you in devotion and blood and the sweetness of a love that could burn down a world if it meant keeping you in the ashes.

You weren’t sure what you were anymore.

Not a prisoner.

Not exactly.

Not a partner.

Not fully.

Not a killer.

Not yet.

But his hands, slick and reverent, cradled your face like you were sacred. Like you were his altar. His salvation.

Because you were.

You could see it in his eyes.

He’d ruin himself for you. Had already ruined others. And he’d drown you in that same ruin, over and over again, if it meant keeping you his.

He kissed you once more.

And whispered your name like a hymn.

His girl.

His gift.

His only.

The morning was red.

Not pink. Not gold.

Red.

The kind of light that made the dust in the air look like something alive, like smoke rising off a battlefield no one ever won. It filtered through the bedroom curtains in streaks, bleeding across the wooden floorboards, catching on corners like dried rust.

You stood in front of the mirror with your fingers curled around the edge of the sink, knuckles white, wrists aching from how tightly you gripped. The weight of the necklace still hung heavy on your collarbone. It hadn’t come off. Not when you undressed. Not when you bathed. Not even when you’d scrubbed at it with a rag soaked in rosewater, trying, foolishly, desperately, to pretend that was all it was. A speck. A blemish. A piece of someone else's story, not yours.

But it was yours now.

All of it.

And it wasn’t just blood that had soaked in.

It was his voice, still echoing. The way he whispered encouragements as you dropped that man’s arm into the grave. The way his smile widened when you didn’t run.

The way the man’s eyes stared up from the dirt in your dreams.

You hadn’t slept. Not really. You’d closed your eyes and drifted just long enough for the screaming to follow you in. His scream. Ragged. Human. Then the wet sound of Remmick tearing into him. Again and again and again. It kept looping, each time more vivid than the last.

You looked at your own face now, and all you could see was that man’s.

Mouth open. Arms limp. That flash of horror when he realized he wouldn’t make it out of this house.

Your breath hitched, low in your throat.

Tears stung your eyes.

You blinked them back.

You didn’t hear him come in.

You never did. That was the trouble. He moved through space like something meant to haunt. Silent, smooth, inescapable. The door didn’t creak. The floor didn’t shift.

But you knew.

Your body always knew before your eyes did. The hairs on your arms rose. The air cooled. The stillness deepened into something you could taste.

“Y’ain’t even touched your tea,” he said gently from the doorway, voice all breath and softness. “I kept it warm for ya.”

You didn’t answer right away. Just stared at yourself in the glass, hands trembling against the porcelain. You tried to draw a breath that wouldn’t shake.

Behind you, he stepped closer.

“I’m not mad,” he added. “If that’s what you’re wonderin’. ’Bout last night.”

The words landed like stones on water.

You didn’t respond.

His reflection didn’t show in the mirror.

It never did.

But you didn’t need it to. His voice wrapped around your waist like a second pair of arms, like silk stretched over barbed wire.

“Y’did so good. Did exactly what I needed.” He stepped closer. Slow. Deliberate. “That ain’t small, y’know. What I asked of you. It was big. It meant somethin’.”

You blinked hard, but the tears still clung stubborn at the corners. You clenched the sink edge tighter, like maybe it could tether you. Anchor you. Stop you from suffocating in what you’d done.

“I didn’t want it to mean anything,” you said.

But it cracked when it came out.

Your voice. Your face. Your control.

It cracked all the way down.

You pressed your lips together to keep from making a sound, but your shoulders betrayed you, shuddering once, sharp and tight.

You felt him move in behind you, his presence stretching out like a shadow cast by firelight.

“I know, darlin’,” he comforted. “I know.”

But he didn’t say sorry.

Not once.

And the necklace stayed right where it was. Cool against your skin, glittering like something beautiful, something earned.

Something permanent.

He was behind you now.

You didn’t hear him move. Not a creak of floorboard, not a shift of breath. But suddenly, his arms were around your waist. Strong, steady, certain. Like they’d always been there. Like they belonged there.

You startled, just a little.

But he only pulled you closer, pressing his body to your back with the kind of patience that wasn’t really patience at all. Just control. You could feel the way he held himself, as if something inside him had to be kept still. Contained.

His breath ghosted over your shoulder, cool and damp like a lingering mist. He smelled like clove. And sage. And copper. Always copper.

He rested his chin near your temple, nose nudging lightly into your hair.

“I can take it off,” he offered, voice low and humming. “The necklace. If it’s too much.”

You didn’t answer.

His fingers brushed lightly over the jewels. A whisper of a touch, reverent and slow. He let it linger.

“But I hoped ya’d keep it.”

Your eyes stayed locked on the mirror. On the glinting sapphires. The dried blood now fully gone but not forgotten. You swallowed hard.

“Why?” you asked, barely above a breath.

He leaned in.

Close enough that his lips brushed your neck this time, not your temple. A soft, trailing kiss pressed just beneath your ear. Not hungry. Not rough. But not gentle either.

His voice sank into your skin.

“Because it looks right on ya.”

The words were quiet, but they landed like a hand on your throat.

You didn’t flinch. Not outwardly. Your face stayed calm in the mirror. Your shoulders held.

But inside?

Something gave.

A small, buckling thing. Like a part of you that still wanted to believe you could carry this without changing shape.

He kissed your cheek once, slower now, mouth warm and oddly careful for someone so often careless with your breath.

Then he stepped back.

“I’m headin’ out,” he said, already turning toward the door. “Won’t be long. Won’t go far. Just need to stretch my legs.”

You nodded once.

Didn’t meet his eyes.

You heard his boots on the stairs.

The front door creaked open.

And like always, he left it ajar.

Just enough.

Not enough to invite the wind in. But enough to make a point.

You’re not locked in.

You’re free to go.

But you never did. Not because you couldn’t.

Because he’d folded himself into your bones. Threaded his voice through your thoughts. Left kisses on your pulse like warnings.

Before the door closed behind him, his voice drifted back up the stairs. Just loud enough to reach you.

“I love ya.”

The words sat heavy on the floorboards.

You didn’t say it back.

And you knew he’d remember that.

Would carry it like a splinter under his skin.

Would mention it again someday.

Long after you’d forgotten it.

Long after you’d wished you hadn’t.

You drifted to the garden.

The one Remmick had planted for you, despite his disdain for sunlight. He never called it a gift. Never made a show of it. Just started tending the earth one day, sleeves rolled, mouth quiet, movements deliberate. No shovel. Just his hands. Just his claws, raking slow furrows into the dirt and patting them soft again like he was taking care of something fragile.

You’d watched from the balcony that day, unsure if it was kindness or authority. Maybe both. With him, it was hard to tell where one ended and the other began.

It was overgrown now.

But beautiful. Wild.

The vines curled over the trellis like they were reaching for something they’d never touch. Lavender bloomed in thick patches near the roots. Moonflowers tilted their faces upward, shy but greedy. He must’ve come through while you were sleeping, added new things. Nightshade, maybe, or something less honest. Plants you didn’t recognize, but that hummed with some secret you weren’t sure you wanted to know.

You crouched beside a clump of jasmine. Ran your fingers along a bloom. Soft, white, too perfect for this place. You et your breath shudder out.

This was what he did.

He gave you things. He built them into your days. Little comforts, stitched between the horrors.

And they worked.

He loved you.

In his way.

It was obsessive. Demanding. It carved pieces out of you, asked for silence when you wanted to scream and closeness when you needed distance. But it wrapped around you, too. Warmed your tea. Laid your slippers out. Whispered your name like a prayer in the middle of the night.

And you.

You didn’t know what you felt.

Not entirely.

But it was real.

Not soft. Not easy. But real.

Real enough to stay.

Real enough to clean up bodies.

Real enough to wear the necklace. Still cool against your skin. Still shining in the light.

You traced the petal again. It trembled slightly beneath your fingertip.

You stood there until the sun dipped low again, until the cicadas started to hum and the air went thick with evening. That slow, syrupy hush that pressed against the back of your throat like a warning. The garden dimmed into blue shadows. The wind stopped moving.

You didn’t need to look at the sky to know it was time.

You went inside.

Back through the back door. Back into the red quiet. The warmth that never left the floorboards. The smell of sugar and copper that clung to the curtains like an old friend. The faint creak of the stairwell. The clock ticking too slow, or maybe just loud.

Back into his house.

Your house.

Home.

And there, waiting for you by the parlor door, was a new pair of shoes.

Sapphire blue.

The exact shade of the necklace.

They didn’t look expensive. Not flashy. Just thoughtful. Too thoughtful. A little too perfect. The soles hadn’t touched ground. The leather looked like cream. Soft enough to bend, strong enough to last.

They were still wrapped in tissue paper. Still perfect.

And on top, a note. Folded twice, edges crisp.

For when you feel like walkin’. But only if I’m with you.

You didn’t cry.

Didn’t smile, either.

You just sat down in the chair beside the box, touched the ribbon. It gave under your fingers, like it had been tied gently. Like it had been placed there just moments before.

And maybe it had.

Maybe he was watching.

Maybe he never stopped.

You looked around the room once. Let your eyes pass over the mantle, the mirror, the empty hallway. Then back to the shoes.

Blue as blood in moonlight.

He wanted you to wear them. To remember him every time you moved. To know you weren’t alone.

That you’d never be alone again.

Even if you wanted to be.

You rested your hands in your lap. Smoothed your palms over the hem of your skirt. And waited.

Because you knew he’d come through the door soon.

And you needed to be ready.

Two bodies.

That was all you saw at first.

The front door swung open on its silent hinges, just wide enough to catch the night air and let in the swamp’s low, humming breath. Then, dragged across the threshold like afterthoughts, came two bodies.

Ankles gripped in Remmick’s fists. One man. One woman. Limp. Unceremonious. Their shoes scraped along the steps with dull thuds, their limbs sagging like broken dolls. Their heads knocked once, twice, against the frame as he yanked them forward over the threshold, then across the floor, right over the woven runner you’d cleaned just yesterday.

He didn’t pause to readjust his grip. Didn’t hoist them up by the arms or cradle the neck. Just dragged them straight across the polished pine, the hem of the woman’s dress catching on a nail, the man’s cuff leaving a damp smear along the grain.

You were already sitting when the door opened. Curled at the far end of the parlor sofa, one leg tucked beneath the other, a book open in your lap. You’d read the same page three times now. Or tried to.

The fire had gone soft, more glow than flame, and the air smelled faintly of lemon oil from the furniture polish you’d used that afternoon. The quiet had stretched long enough to feel foreign. The kind of quiet you always thought maybe, just maybe, meant a reprieve.

But it never did.

And deep down, some awful part of you had known.

You knew it when he left without telling you where.

You knew it when the sun dipped low and the shoes sat untouched beside the door.

You knew it when your fingertips hovered over the necklace at your collarbone, blue and cold and impossibly bright against your skin.

The quiet of the day had been too full.

The stillness too practiced.

The gift too kind.

Now, he was back. And he brought proof of it with him.

Remmick looked up as he stepped inside. Not hurried. Not sheepish. Just calm.

Casual.

As if he’d been returning from a stroll through the garden and not some carnage-stained errand that ended in slaughter.

And he smiled.

Sharp. Crooked. Gleaming even beneath the gore.

His shirt, what was left of it, clung to him in soaked folds. Torn across the collar. Split open down the front. Dark with blood and something thicker beneath. His trousers weren’t better, stiff with drying stains, the cuffs tracking flecks of mud across the parlor floor.

But it was his hands, claws, that made your breath catch.

Those clever, expressive things.

They were soaked up to the elbows, glistening red at the knuckles, sticky across the nails, the fingers flexing slightly as if trying to forget what they’d just done.

The blood hit the floor with every step. Slap. Smear. Slap. The sound seemed to echo, loud against the hush of the house.

And around his neck,

The gold chain.

The same one from all those months ago. When he first walked into your life, quiet and strange and smiling with teeth too white and eyes too old. The chain had caught the afternoon light back then. Made you think of warmth. Of wealth. Of good manners and good shoes and someone just passing through.

Now, it caught nothing.

Just blood.

Draped against the hollow of his throat, the metal barely glinted beneath the gore. But you knew it. Recognized it in a way that made your stomach twist. Not with fear.

With memory.

Back then, he’d brought honey. Compliments. Ribbons.

Now he brought bodies.

And not once, not even as he stepped closer, dragging the corpses across your freshly scrubbed floors, did he look ashamed.

He didn’t stop until they were halfway into the parlor, just a few feet from where you sat.

Close enough that the stink caught up to you. Metal and dirt and something that curled the back of your throat.

You stared.

At the man. At the woman. At Remmick.

At the man who said he loved you.

At the one who’d kissed your neck that morning and murmured, Won’t be long.

At the one who’d bought you shoes.

And finally, finally, looked at you proper.

Then, he smiled again.

Like this was nothing.

Like it was love.

“I got greedy,” he said with a smile that pulled too wide. Too sharp. The kind of smile that didn’t look right on a human mouth. “Ain’t proud of it. But-”

He dropped one of the ankles with a wet thud and dragged a blood-soaked hand through his hair, slicking it back from his brow. The strands clung there, heavy and dark with something not yet dry.

“-damn, if it didn’t feel good.”

The book slipped from your lap.

It hit the floor with a soft thud, pages bending inward like they were trying to hide. You didn’t look down.

Couldn’t.

Remmick tilted his head. The firelight caught in the red sheen along his jaw, the crimson glint in his eyes, the blood on his lashes, the teeth brazenly bared behind his smile. His gold chain lay across his collarbone, no longer shining, just soaked.

“Now don’t start with that look,” he said gently. Like you were being difficult. Like this was a misunderstanding. “Ain’t nothin’ different about this than last time. Just… more.”

You opened your mouth.

Closed it again.

Your throat tightened. Heat rushed up from your chest to your face, fast and dizzying.

“I can’t,” you said. Too soft. A ghost of breath.

He blinked.

You swallowed, tried again, louder this time, firmer. Your voice broke on the last word.

“I can’t do this.”

His smile didn’t disappear. It tilted. Softened. Confused. Like he’d misheard you, like you’d offered a strange joke in poor taste.

“Sure ya can,” he said with a little chuckle. “You’ve done it before.”

“No- Remmick, I mean it.”

You stood too fast and stumbled backward, shoulder bumping into the arm of the couch. Your hands shook. Your legs wouldn’t stay steady. Something inside you wanted to bolt.

“I-I thought I could prepare for this. I thought I’d be ready if it happened again. I tried to be ready.” You gasped, the tears rising too quickly now. “But it’s too much. It’s too much, I can’t- I can’t do it again.”

You covered your mouth with both hands as the sob came. Hot and involuntary. It made your knees buckle.

He didn’t say anything.

Just stood there in the parlor’s golden light, two bodies behind him, the blood still dripping from his sleeves. His shirt was open, clinging to him in places and torn in others, revealing streaks of red drying along the lines of his ribs. The bloodied gold chain at his neck looked too bright against it. Almost sickeningly bright. Like something holy lost in rot, just as defiled.

And yet he watched you.

Like you were the only thing that mattered in the room.

Like the rest of the blood didn’t exist.

Like he liked this. Your shaking, your fear. Or maybe it wasn’t that. Maybe it was something worse. Maybe he needed it.

He dropped the second ankle.

The bodies sprawled in opposite directions, lifeless and heavy, arms twisted beneath them. But his gaze didn’t follow them. Never once did he glance away from you.

He started walking.

Slow, deliberate steps. Not rushed. Not angry. As if trying to convince you to not run away. Even though he knew you wouldn’t.

His claws hadn’t retracted yet.

You could see them now. Long and sharp, extending clean past his fingertips like polished blades. Shimmering wet.

You backed away until your spine met the bookshelf, hands splayed behind you against the wood.

“I’m not mad,” he said gently.

God, why was that worse?

“I just thought ya might help.” he went on.

He was close now. Close enough to breathe in. Close enough to taste the iron in the air. His outline looked too tall in the firelight, too narrow at the shoulders, too still.

You turned your face away, but his hand came up, bloodied, clawed, and cupped your cheek with the same reverence you remembered from quieter mornings. His thumb smeared a tear away.

“You’re cryin’,” he murmured, and it almost sounded like it surprised him.

Then, instead of licking it away, he kissed it. Softly. Slowly. Like he knew that was what you needed. As if that made it better.

You sobbed harder.

“Please,” you whispered, barely able to speak past the tightness in your throat. “Please, Remmick. Not this time. I-I can’t.”

He leaned in, brushing his lips against your nape, his breath traveling hot and sticky down your neck.

And then, in the sweetest voice you’d ever heard:

“Sometimes I think about killin’ ya.”

Your whole body went still.

Not in fear.

Not in surprise.

In something worse.

Recognition.

Because you knew. Knew without needing a second breath, that he meant it.

The words didn’t drop like a bomb. They slid in like a knife. Quiet. Precise. Familiar.

He tilted his head, brushing his knuckle down your jaw like he hadn’t just said the most horrifying thing you’d ever heard.

“Every day,” he whispered. “Mornin’ and night. Before ya wake. After ya sleep. When you’re liftin’ the kettle, or brushin’ out your curls, or sayin’ my name like it still means somethin’ soft.”

His eyes were wide now, blue burning red at the center. Hungry. Hollow. A flame with no wick.

His hand drifted down your throat. Light as a feather. He traced the line of your pulse with the back of his knuckle, sighing at the flutter under your skin.

“Don’t mean I want to,” he said. “Not in the way you’re thinkin’. I’d never do it to hurt ya. It ain’t about that.”

You didn’t move. Couldn’t.

He stepped in closer, just close enough that your breath bounced off his shirt. Soaked and stiff with blood, the collar dark and curling at the seams. You could smell it all over him now. On his breath. In his hair. On the chain pressed tight against the hollow of his throat.

“Sometimes,” he started, “I see ya sittin’ there with a book in your hand, brows furrowed, lips pursed, and I think: God, I’d like to still that moment forever. Seal it. Keep it. Bury it right inside me so no one else ever gets to see it.”

His hand dropped lower.

Over your ribs.

The curve of your waist.

“Sometimes,” he went on, his voice still syrup-sweet, “I think about your blood spread out over the floor like a paintin’. The kind of red that don’t fade. The kind that says y’were mine.”

You whimpered.

And it made him shiver.

“But then ya smile at me,” he said. “And I think, no, not yet. Not yet. Let her smile again. Let her ask me what I’m hummin’. Let her scold me for trackin’ dirt into the kitchen. Let her keep bein’ good.”

His hands moved again. Gentle. Worshipful.

He wrapped them around your hips and turned you, slow, pressing you backward until your thighs brushed the edge of the sofa.

Until you could see the bodies again.

Still sprawled on the parlor floor.

Still leaking onto the wood.

Your knees locked.

Remmick lowered you down like you were made of glass. One hand cradling your spine, the other smoothing your skirt beneath you. He sat beside you, far too close. Turned to face you as if there was space to spare.

His claws scraped your knee where the fabric had risen.

“Y’see, darlin’,” he said, cupping your face again, “it ain’t about cruelty. It’s about closeness. I love ya so much I can’t figure out what to do with it. It don’t burn clean. It don’t settle.”

His eyes gleamed.

“I wanna take ya in. Swallow ya whole. Wear your name on the inside of my mouth. I want ya with me, inside me, forever. That’s what this is.”

You were shaking now.

Tears welled, but you couldn’t blink them away. They just sat there, blurring the edges of him. Of the room. Of the lifeless shapes still cooling on the floor.

“Ya think I don’t see it in ya too?” he lied, so confidently that you almost found yourself believing it. “That same want? That same ache? Ya look at me like I’m already inside you.”

You made a choked sound. Couldn’t tell if it was protest or grief.

He kissed the corner of your mouth again.

Then lower.

Your jaw.

Your throat.

His hands roamed with reverence, but they were still stained.

And it was still happening.

“Sometimes,” he breathed, lips brushing the shell of your ear, “I think I’ll wake one mornin’ and do it. Just let it happen. Let my love finish what it started. But I haven’t yet.”

He leaned back just enough to look at you.

His kissed a tear from your cheek.

“I haven’t,” he said again, softly. “Y’should remember that.”

You should’ve screamed.

Run.

Shoved him back.

Instead, you stared at him through tear-glossed lashes. Silent. Spinning. Unmoored.

He leaned in once more. Kissed your cheek like it was something fragile.

“Y’don’t ever have to be afraid of me, sugar. Long as ya stay.”

And for a moment, just a moment, you almost believed him.

Remmick’s lips brushed yours, feather-light at first, a barely-there caress that left you reeling. You could taste the copper tang of blood on his mouth, feel the warmth of it against your skin. Your breath caught as he pulled back slightly, just enough to feel his breath against your face. A soft huff of air, a reassurance.

But then his hand slid up your spine, blood smearing across your dress, and all softness fled.

This time, when his mouth met yours, there was no gentleness. No hesitation. Just hunger, visceral and consuming. He kissed you like he wanted to devour you whole, his lips slanting over yours, his tongue pushing into your mouth and claiming every inch of it as his own.

You whimpered, fingers groping at his shoulders, but whether to push him away or pull him closer, you didn’t know. Your thoughts were muddled, thick with fear and revulsion and a deep, wrenching want you couldn’t name. He tasted like death. Like sin. Like every dark fantasy you’d ever had but never dared speak aloud.

He yanked your head back to bare your throat, kissing down it, hot and open-mouthed, his tongue flicking out to taste the salt of your skin. His other hand, which had been stroking idly up and down your side, slipped under your skirt. You tensed, a protest rising in your throat, but he shushed you before you could voice it.

“Shh, now,” he murmured against your throat, fangs ghosting over your skin. “You’ve been achin’ for this. Starvin’ for it. A man’s hands. A man’s mouth. And ain’t it a mercy it’s mine givin’ it to ya?”

His fingers brushed your inner thigh, dragging through the wetness that had gathered there. You could feel the scrape of his claws, even through the fabric of your panties. A shudder ran through you, and you hated yourself for it. Hated that some twisted part of you wanted this, wanted him, even like this, covered in blood and filth and the evidence of his crimes.

He teased you through the thin fabric, his touch light and maddening. Circling. Flicking. Dipping just inside the edge before pulling away again. You whined, hips bucking of their own accord, desperate for more. More pressure. More friction. More something, anything to ground you in the midst of this debauched nightmare.

“Please,” you gasped, not even sure what you were asking for. For him to stop? For him to keep going? For the world to open up and swallow you whole, so you didn’t have to reckon with this unfamiliar depravity?

He chuckled, dark and indulgent. “Greedy girl,” he chided, his breath hot against your ear. “Don’t worry darlin’. I’ll give ya what y’need.”

He punctuated his words with a hard press of his fingers, rubbing rough circles over the damp fabric. You cried out, back arching, lungs seizing with the intensity of it. It was too much. Not enough. Your thoughts were fragmenting, splintering under the force of your need. You felt like you were drowning in it.

In him.

And still, he whispered filthy things in your ear, coating your skin in his words. Telling you how much he loved you. How much he needed you. How he’d do anything to keep you, even this. Especially this.

Remmick sucked at your throat, slow, deliberate, letting the warmth rise, letting you squirm. Then, without warning, he bit down. Deep. Sharp. A growl rumbled from his chest at the sound you made, part gasp, part sob, and he shivered like it thrilled him. “That’s it,” he breathed, lips glossy with blood and spit. “Sing for me, sweetheart.”

He growled as he left a map of his obsession on your flesh, fingers finally shoving your panties aside to slide through your slick folds.

Inside, something was screaming. Screaming for you to run, to fight, to do anything but this. To not let him take you like this, stained with the blood of innocents, surrounded by the evidence of his madness.

But your body... your body was betraying you. Arching into his touch. Soaking his fingers. Trembling with a heat you’d never known before. A heat that was as twisted and all-consuming as he was.

He pushed his fingers inside you, and you cried out at the stretch, the burn of it. He was big, bigger than you’d ever had, and the scrape of his claws against your inner walls only added to the intensity of it. It hurt, God, it hurt, but with every flex of his fingers, every curl and twist, you were hit with a new pang of euphoria, a pleasure so sharp it was almost painful.

You were so close, teetering on the edge of something huge and shattering, when he suddenly pulled his fingers out, leaving you achingly empty. You whimpered, hips bucking, seeking, but before you could even form a protest, he was pushing your legs apart, baring you completely to his gaze.

And then, without warning, he was on you, his mouth hot and wet and voracious. He ate you out like an animal, fangs still bared, growling into your flesh like he wanted to consume you whole. The sounds he made were obscene, wet and slurping, echoing in the quiet of the room like some kind of debauched symphony.

You thrashed beneath him, fingers tangling in his hair, pulling, pushing, trying to get him closer, get him away, you didn’t even know anymore. The pleasure was cresting higher and higher, coiling tighter and tighter, a spring on the verge of snapping. You felt like you were being flayed alive by it, torn apart piece by piece by piece.

And when you finally broke, it was with a scream that tore from your throat like a wound. You came so hard you saw stars, your vision whiting out, your lungs seizing, your body convulsing. And through it all, he just kept lapping at you, drinking down every drop of your pleasure like it was the finest wine. Like he couldn’t get enough of your taste, your need, your everything.

Your breath came in sharp pants, thoughts equally scattered. Fragmented. Lost in the haze of pleasure and horror that clouded your mind.

And then, with a monumental effort, you pushed him away. Or tried to. Your arms felt weak, your muscles trembling with the backlash of your climax.

He looked up at you, his face soaked with your arousal, a feral smile spreading across his lips. “I’m not done yet, darlin’,” he growled with a low rumble that vibrated through you. He tore at his clothes, ripping the blood-soaked shirt over his head, exposing his crimson-streaked torso. You tried to protest again, but he shushed you with a kiss, a deep, consuming kiss that left you tasting yourself, him, and the metallic tang of blood.

He lined himself up at your entrance, and you could feel the heat of him, the thickness, the promise of what was to come. You tensed, a flutter of panic in your chest. “Remmick, I-” you started, but he cut you off with another kiss, his hips surging forward, impaling you in one swift, brutal stroke.

You cried out, a sound of pain and pleasure mingled together, your nails digging into his back as he filled you completely. He was nothing you could’ve prepared yourself for, stretching you to your limits, the sensation was nearly unbearable. He started to move, his hips rolling in a rhythm that was both primal and precise, each thrust driving him deeper, harder, more relentlessly than the last.

“God, ya feel so good, sugar,” he moaned against your neck with a huff that made you shiver. “So tight. So wet. Y’were made for this. Made for me.”

You could feel the soreness building, the ache of being stretched, of being taken so ruthlessly. Your body was overwhelmed, every nerve ending firing, every sensation heightened to almost unbearable levels. You whimpered, your hips bucking in time with his thrusts, unable to do anything but take what he was giving you.

Remmick’s eyes were wild, his breath coming in ragged gasps as he drove into you. “Look at ya,” he panted, voice so thick with lust you could barely understand him. “So beautiful. So perfect. Ya take my cock like a dream.”

He leaned down, licking the tears that streamed down your face, his tongue hot and wet against your skin as he purred. “Ya taste so sweet when you cry.”

You tried to divert your attention, to escape the intensity of his near-crimson gaze and the raw, animalistic need that burned in his eyes. It was a need that terrified you to your very core. Your eyes darted around the room, seeking anything to anchor yourself to, anything to distract from the overwhelming sensations coursing through your body.

Your gaze landed on the necklace that swayed from his neck. That blood-soaked gold chain that glinted dully in the firelight. That gold chain that followed you from the life you once had to now, wrapped in Remmick’s embrace, his body moving against yours in a rhythm as old as time.

He noticed your distraction, a cruel, knowing smile playing on his lips as he reached up and took the necklace into his mouth. He bit down on the gold, his teeth sinking into the metal with a force that should have bent it, his eyes never leaving yours.

“That’s it, darlin’,” he groaned, the words muffled around the jewelry. “Focus on that. Focus on me. On how good this feels.”

And God help you, he was right. It did feel good. So good it hurt. So good it was almost too much to bear. The pleasure was a sharp, piercing thing, a knife’s edge of ecstasy that left you breathless and dizzy. With each thrust, each roll of his hips, each brutal, delicious stroke, the pressure inside you built, a coiled spring ready to snap, your body teetering on the brink of something monumental.

You could feel the guilt gnawing at you. A dark, insidious thing that clawed at the edges of your mind, trying to break through the haze of pleasure. How could you find enjoyment in this? How could your body respond so eagerly to his touch? To his invasion? You knew the depth of his depravity. The extent of his crimes. You were a willing participant. An accomplice.

You were ashamed of the moans that fell from your lips, ashamed of the way your body moved with his, ashamed of the desperate, keening cries that escaped you as he brought you higher, closer to the edge of oblivion.

Remmick's hips continued to roll in a relentless rhythm, his body glistening with sweat, his breath coming in ragged, desperate gasps. He leaned down, his voice a drunken, fervent whisper against your ear, his words a mix of promise and threat. “M’gonna put a baby in ya, sugar. Gonna fill you up. Watch ya get all fat ’n slow ’n pretty.”

His words sent a shock of panic through you. A cold, paralyzing fear that cut through the haze of pleasure and left you reeling. You tried to push him away, your hands pressing against his chest, your body tensing as you tried to escape the inevitable. “Remmick, no-” you gasped, your voice hoarse, your eyes wide with a mix of terror and pleading. “You can’t-”

But he was relentless, his body pinning you down, his strength overpowering yours in a way that left you feeling helpless. Trapped. He captured your wrists in one hand, holding them above your head as he continued to move inside you, his hips never ceasing their brutal, demanding rhythm. “Shh,” he cooed, his voice a low, soothing purr that contrasted sharply with the wild, untamed look in his eyes. “You’ve been askin' for this. You’ve been beggin' for it. I know you have. And I’m gonna give it to you.”

He leaned down, tongue invading your mouth, exploring, conquering, silencing your protests as he continued to move inside you.

You tried to turn your head, to break the kiss, to gasp for air, but he followed, his lips never leaving yours, his breath mingling with yours, his tongue continuing its relentless exploration. He kissed you deeply, thoroughly, his lips moving against yours with a suffocating desperation, as if he were trying to pour every ounce of his being into you. To consume you wholly.

“Remmick, please-” you managed to gasp as he finally broke the kiss, your chest heaving, your body trembling with a mix of fear, pleasure, and something else, something almost akin to desperation. “I can’t-”

But he only smiled, a slow, knowing smile that sent a shiver down your spine, a mix of anticipation and trepidation. “Ya can, sugar,” he insisted, the lack of choice you had in the matter laced on every word. “And ya will.”

With a final, shuddering thrust, he buried himself deep, his whole body seizing tight as he spilled inside you, breath caught somewhere between a grunt and a gasp. His mouth found your shoulder, and without pause, he bit down. Hard. Fangs sinking deep. The pressure broke through your skin, and the sound that left him was low and guttural. Like it came from the oldest part of him.

The pain hit first. Bright. Hot. A sudden wash of heat that bled through your dress and soaked down your arm. You cried out, not just from the hurt, but from the way it tangled with everything else. Your spine arched, your chest heaving, your head going light from the sheer force of it.

Remmick didn’t stop. Didn’t pull away. His hands gripped tight around your hips, and he moved through the aftershocks like he couldn’t bear to let the moment end. The bite held you still. Anchored. The only sound in the room was the ragged pull of his breathing and the faint sound of blood dripping onto the sofa.

When he finally stilled, he didn’t let go, or pull out.

He licked over the wound slow, careful, as if tasting something rare. As if trying to commit it to memory. A quiet sound rose in his throat, something between a hum and a sigh, and you felt it against your skin.

You were shaking.

Spent.

And he held you like you were something precious, something ruined, something he couldn’t stop himself from needing.

The sheets smelled like lavender. Fresh. Clean. As if nothing had ever happened at all. As if you hadn’t just laid beneath him in the room where the bodies had gone cold, their blood still tacky on the floorboards.

As if he hadn’t taken you with that same blood smeared down his chest, soaked into his sleeves, crusted along his jaw.

As if he hadn’t whispered love into your mouth while fucking you raw against the parlor sofa, his hands pinning yours down, his hips relentless, the broken cries that spilled from your throat sounding too much like pleading and too little like pleasure.

And then, when it was over, when your body was wrecked and shivering, your legs too weak to stand, he’d kissed your forehead like a lullaby, scooped you up in his arms like you weighed nothing at all, and carried you to the bath.

The tub was already full.

Of course it was.

Warm. Steaming. Waiting for you.

You’d wondered, hazily, if he’d drawn it before or after.

He didn’t speak as he undressed you. Just peeled the ruined nightgown from your skin with slow, reverent fingers. His claws retracted now, nails blunted and gentle. No urgency. No demand. Only care.

The water lapped up around your body as he eased you in, one hand holding your back, the other at your hough, lowering you as though you might break apart in his arms.

He didn’t get in with you. Not at first.

Just knelt beside the tub and cupped water over your shoulders, your breasts, your thighs. Ran a cloth down your spine. Washed you in long, slow strokes, like he was trying to scrub the memory of the bodies from your skin before it sank too deep.

But it already had.

Still, you let him work. Let him wash your hair, comb it through with his fingers. Let him tilt your head back and rinse it clean. Let him trace every curve of your body like it was scripture.

He scrubbed the blood from your shoulder with painstaking tenderness, kissing the half-healed wound in between passes, calling you his miracle, his mercy, his girl.

His voice never rose. Not once.

Not even when you flinched from his touch. Not even when you cried.

He kissed your eyes dry.

You thought about the quiet days. The good ones. When he made breakfast in the morning and left hibiscus tea on your nightstand. When he sang while he cooked. When he brushed your hair with such delicacy you almost forgot what his hands were capable of.

And you thought about the other days. The long silences. The backhanded questions. The hollow, hateful stares that brought you to tears.

Your body ached in places you didn’t have names for. Inside and out.

And he was so gentle now.

You wanted to scream.

Instead, you let him rinse the soap from your skin and lift you out of the tub. Let him wrap you in a towel, thick and warm, smelling faintly of clove and firewood.

Let him dry you off. Let him carry you to his bedroom, both of you silent now, except for his breath brushing against your temple.

The mattress dipped under your weight. The pillows caught your head like a secret. The blanket was heavy in the best way, and his arms found you again before you could move away.

Remmick curled around you like a second skin. One arm beneath your waist. One over your belly.

His fingers didn’t move. Just stayed there, still and steady, like they could already feel what had been made between you.

His mouth was at your neck again, breath soft, lips barely brushing.

And still, you didn’t sleep.

You just stared into the dark, remembering the warmth of his voice when he called you good. Remembering the snap of bone. The wet sound of flesh giving way. The feel of his body slamming into yours with no hesitation, no mercy, like love could be beaten into you if he just took enough of you for himself.

He shifted behind you. Pulled you closer.

There was no space left between your bodies.

None between the truth and the lie of it.

And you still didn’t move.

You kept your eyes open. Fixed on the wall.

And thought about everything.

About your daddy’s store. You thought about that first. The sound of the bell over the door, bright and sweet as wind chimes. The gentle sweep of the broom on the front steps every morning. You thought about how the sun used to come in through the big front windows, painting long streaks of gold across the shelves. You used to watch the dust swirl in the light and think it looked like magic.

You thought about the girls you’d grown up with. How you used to sit on porch rails with your legs swinging, eating too much candy and daring each other to run barefoot down the gravel road. You wondered where they were now. If they were married. If they had babies.

If they thought about you.

You wondered if any of them had come by the store. If they’d stood on the same wooden floorboards you once stood on and asked your daddy where you’d gone. If they were told you were gone for good.

Or maybe they didn’t ask at all.

Maybe they figured you’d run off with a man, like so many girls did when the world backed them into a corner and made them choose between being loved or being lonely.

You thought about your mama next.

About how she used to wrap your hair at night, hands gentle but firm, fingers slick with oil. She never let you skip it, not even once. Not even when you pouted and said you weren’t a baby anymore. “Still my baby,” she’d say, tying the scarf with a kiss to your forehead.

You thought about what she’d say now. Whether she’d still hold you close, or just hold your face and try not to cry. You didn’t know if she’d recognize you.

Not like this. Not with him.

Remmick shifted behind you in the bed, stirring as if he could feel your thoughts pulling you too far. He curled tighter. Pulled you in with him. One arm clutched low around your waist, the other curling beneath your ribs. Like he was trying to mold his shape to yours. Like if he could just hold you close enough, you’d stop trying to leave, mind or body.

And maybe he was right.

Maybe he could fold you into him, press you so deep into his chest you’d forget where you ended and he began.

You blinked slow.

Your throat ached.

The room was quiet. The air was warm. The shadows on the walls flickered and stretched like they didn’t know where to settle. The lamp on the dresser hummed soft and low, casting gold against the covers, turning everything honeyed and still.

There was no lock on the door.

No chain at your ankle.

No order in his voice.

But it was a cage all the same.

A soft, warm, gilded cage.

And you had stayed.

Because where else was there to go?

You’d imagined leaving. Dozens of times. Pictured it clear as glass. The road winding long and empty behind you. The night cool on your skin. Your heart in your mouth.

But every time you chased that dream far enough, it ended in the same place.

Here.

With him.

You’d made too many trades along the way. Traded silence for safety. Traded truth for comfort. Traded fear for something that looked too much like love to name it anything else.

And now you had nothing left to bargain with.

You’d redrawn the line a hundred times, and now the chalk had run out.

So you stopped thinking.

Let your muscles go slack.

Let the ache in your chest press itself into the mattress. Let the silk of his voice echo in your head.

You’re safe, darlin’.

My beautiful girl.

I love ya.

And finally, you let yourself go.

1K notes · View notes

luxurychristmaspudding · 9 months ago

Text

summary: after a night out dancing and a lift home turns into something more, you learn something about your dad's buddy. joel miller fucks.

pairing: young!joel miller x f!reader

ratings/warnings: 18+, MDNI. it's smut, y'all. everything you've come to expect. respectable age gap (10 years ish), tiny bit of spanking, one (1) gentle pussy slap, lil bit of daddy kink, joel miller eats it from the back (oral (f&m)), edging, unprotected piv (do better), creampie, feelings, joel miller's whore mouth.

reader has hair and wears dresses, no other descriptions or name.

wc: 7.2k

an: for @schnarfer. my favourite hot priest, i worship in your church <3

Joel went out looking for trouble that night.

Hair curling at the nape of his neck, a beer sweltering in his hand as beads of sweat carved their way down the strong line of his back. T-shirt sticking to his skin, tension wound tight in his shoulders, thick in every muscle, every strand of sinew after work.

Revelling in the feeling of how the weight of the day lifted the more he drank, the more he relaxed, feeling his smile get wider the more he loosened up in the crowded bar. Freshly thirty five, another year in hand. Tommy buying the shots, introducing him to every new face that walked into the steaming, heavy swell of wood and linoleum, every stranger who leant against the tacky bar, every pretty girl who flicked their hair and batted their eyelashes.

He’s laughing - held flung back, chest heaving - harder than he has in a long time. Dancing in a way so unlike how he dances with Sarah in the kitchen, welcoming the heavy, slow grind of hips against his own, breathless against a sweet smelling neck. It’s hot and it’s loud on this Friday night in Austin, and he loves it.

Not quite basking in the attention of being the birthday boy, but shouldering the stream of conversation that Tommy directs his way nonetheless. Cheeks flushed pink as he’s hauled up on to the bar top, clumsy, unsure where to look as the bartender encourages him to stand in full view of the crowd. The whole bar, oscillating with colour and light and sound, roaring into a raucous chorus of happy birthday, beckoned by the chime of the bell by the till.

The spectacle of it all makes him look to the ceiling before dropping his chin to his chest, makes him laugh again, watching these people, many strangers, cheer and sing for him.

He holds his beer to his chest through the first part of the song, cheeks tight with a smile. His eyes swivel to the corner of the dancefloor on the downturn of Joel… catching the flicker and flare of a pair he recognises, scanning your face on the refrain - happy birthday - heart dropping confusingly low in his chest, the world taking a sticky beat as his blood halts and begins to rush again - to you.

He’s not seen you here before. Much more used to seeing you coming and going from your father’s house - bright smile, wicked eyes. Moved back home after spending some time out west when you’d finished your Masters program, always happy to chat for a little longer if you were where he was. Interesting and interested - he’s been regaled by tales of you from your father - the man who’s been overseeing safety on Joel’s latest job site - and listened to more directly from you, lip caught between his teeth as he bit back amusement at the things you didn’t want your dad to know.

Your father is a good man. Kind, supportive. So proud of you in the way he talks that Joel’s taking blueprints for raising Sarah. And you - you. Joel tries to think of you in ways he thinks of other colleagues or acquaintances. Smart, creative, perceptive. Patient, generous with your time and energy when entertaining neighbours at cookouts. Any other thoughts creep in in the dead of night, and he’s quick to try and forget them by morning.

But this - you here, now - is entirely different. It could be the buzz of the tequila in his system, could be the hot blood in his veins, could be the giddy little flash of that smile you shoot him as you clap and whoop with the rest of the crowd, but his feet are itching to find you once he half hops, half clambers down off the bar, accepting claps on the back and other sentiments as he searches for you again.

But you’re gone.

Disappeared, into thin air. Like he imagined you in the first place.

He cranes his neck a little, twisting his head from side to side as if trying to loosen another tight muscle, trying to tamp down the damp disappointment he feels.

Trying to remember how he tries to forget.

‘Happy birthday, cowboy,’ the words are breathless, squeezed through a smile.

The grin that creeps across his face is slow and wide, crinkling the corners of his eyes as he turns to face you.

‘Evenin’, darlin’,’ is his reply. Deep, coy, any idea of hiding his thoughts gone, buried. It’s his birthday, and you’re here. You and your sparkling eyes.

��You gonna let me buy you a drink, or have you got a queue of ladies lining up to do that already?’

He laughs, and you feel the sound glimmer down your body, lighting every synapse, every receptor. You track his gaze as it drifts down your body and back up, spine straightening at his appraisal.

Delicious thighs beneath the hem of your skirt, soft swell of your breasts above your neckline.

‘Your daddy know you’re here?’ He asks, delighting in the way you scoff.

‘My daddy knows I’m out tonight,’ you say, licking your teeth, eyes dropping to his mouth, ‘And he don’t care much about it. I’m a big girl, Joel. I can handle myself.’

They’re big words for someone around ten years his junior, but he doesn’t doubt it. He’s heard your bartending stories, about your debates with fratboys. Something about your confidence, your self-assuredness licks a tongue of flame up his back. He bites his cheek.

‘Best buy me that drink, then.’

He went looking for trouble that night.

And Jesus, he found it.

Found it on the dancefloor, your soft body grinding against his. The heat and the sweat, how you moved your hips with his, how you’d giggled when he’d turned you around, pulling you flush against him. Your hands grasping for him, clutching at his thigh as you pressed firmly against the bulge growing at your backside, head tipped back, bliss etched across your face as you felt each other.

Found it in his truck when he dragged you outside under the pretence of giving you a lift home, found it when he rucked your skirt up on the backseat, when he pulled the top of your dress down. Inches of skin he had banished fantasies about to the back of his mind, revealed to him in the dim light of the parking lot. The sweat gleaming on your sternum, shining on your clavicles, your neck. He wishes, now, that he had taken more time to tell you how beautiful you looked, how smart you are, how funny, that first time, but the two of you had been too caught up in seeing, feeling, as much as possible.

His knees had protested as he crammed himself onto the floor, wanting to be between those thighs, wanting to taste you. Pressing, gliding his fingers against your pussy over your underwear, watching you keen and beg, hands twisting tight in the material of your dress, then his shirt collar, then his hair.

And that first swipe of his tongue when he’d pulled your underwear to the side, that first, most base knowledge of you. The sweet and sour, your smell, the way you became pliant, willing to have your thighs pushed up towards your chest. Quickly obsessed with the way you looked down at him, jaw slack, pupils blown, eyebrows slightly furrowed. Quickly obsessed with the way your pussy looked, puffy, needy, the way it leaked and clenched before him as he leant back to spit on it, how your head hit the headrest with a soft thump.

Too obsessed, everything about that night feeling too good as he lowered you down onto him, as he sunk his teeth into your shoulder to stop himself from coming too early, watching you bounce on his cock, listening to the way you moaned and panted and whimpered his name. The wet sounds of you fucking, the way he held you still, big hands on your waist as he bucked up into you. The way your noises, your breathing stuttered as he thrusted harder, as he dropped you lower. The fogged windows, low bass from the bar, how you clenched and fluttered around him as he wrung two orgasms from your pretty body before spilling himself inside you.

He’s been finding trouble ever since.

Finding reasons to help you grab drinks, bring out nibbles at your dad’s Halloween party. Finding excuses to have you backed up against the tool bench in the garage instead, his hips between yours, soft lips against chapped or your hand tight against your mouth to make sure nobody would find you. Heading back out into the garden with his cock still swollen, tucked into his black slacks, feeling your slick around its base still, your fake blood smeared on his dog collar, watching as you pressed your thighs together in your seat, knowing you could still feel him trickling out of you. He could hear your teasing through the glint in your eye - some priest you are, father.

Driving you home from the bar after a night of dancing around each other, after glances were snuck whenever they could be - over his brother’s shoulder, between your friends’ laughter. The crackle of electricity in the truck cab as the warm air threaded itself between you, your sparkling eyes, devious little laugh.

Walking you to your door, keeping you safe, don't wanna disappoint your old man.

Jamming his foot between the wood and the frame to come in when you told him he wasn’t home.

The mornings when Sarah’s waking up, still sugar-high after a sleepover, in a house the other side of town. The mornings he’s awake first, drinking coffee at his kitchen table when you hop down the stairs in his t-shirt from the night before, sleep-stained and perfect. The mornings that start with you in his lap, with kisses pressed to temples, lips, necks, his wide palms snaking under the material, fiending warm skin, finding it, cradling it. The firm weight of your breasts in his palms, the pebbling of your nipples beneath his thumbs. The soft rock of your hips against his hardening length, his fingers reaching to pull your panties to the side, finding you soaked like that first night. How you whine and huff against his shoulder as he sinks one, two, three digits into you, as he twists them, pumps them, as he uses his thumb to toy with your clit. The wet patch you leave, darkening the grey tenting below you, the outline of him something you want to press your face against, nuzzle, mouth at until he’s begging this time.

Mornings when he takes you apart deftly, until you hover above him, pulling his hard, leaking cock over the top of his sweatpants, savouring that delicious stretch around him, the way he thickens out at the base, the way the wiry hair there catches on your clit. When you can enjoy the way he holds you there afterwards, talking about your days ahead, nibbling at your ear as his cum slips from you along with his softening cock.

All these moments, and they’re never enough.

Because despite how often they happen, how often he might be able to hold you, kiss you - you make Joel Miller feel like a fucking teenager.

It’s been years since he’s woken up to the cooling evidence of a wet dream in his boxers. He’s having them nightly now in his thirties; sick and tired of waking up wet and aching and sticky, sick and tired of wishing it was you, not his hand, helping to solve the problem.

He wants you here so much more often than he does. The tip of his tongue on the evenings you call, sunlight fading through the window, orange on his sheets. He wonders, as you talk, what it would look like painted onto your skin.

He wants Sarah to actually know how he feels about the woman who babysits her every so often, wants Tommy to understand the reason why he turns up smiling to the site every day. And he wants your father to know his daughter has found someone who’ll treat her right, who’ll hold her hand through the bad days and give her all he can to make her smile.

The more he thinks about it, the more he wonders whether you have, too.

Whether you’d confess to your father the crush you have on the contractor, ask if he could put in a good word for you. There isn’t much between you - it would only take some careful wording, an evening where he can present the flowers he’s been dying to give you at your door.

He’s sure your father wouldn’t mind.

But this secret, the sneaking around - he can’t deny the thrill of it. Stolen touches, kisses, whispers in the moonlight. Quiet jokes between the two of you, the looks exchanged around others, the show of you putting your hand on his shoulder - can I get you anything else, Mr Miller?

You’ve only come close to being found out once. Just the once. By Tommy - who else could it have been?

Tommy, who couldn't hide his delight when he found the underwear you’d left behind in Joel's truck one morning, wheezing with laughter as Joel stuffed your soft, cotton panties into his back pocket. His cheeks aflame, he swore under his breath that he’d kill his little brother if he ever flicked a woman’s underwear at him like that again instead of doing the right thing - kicking them under the seat and pretending he hadn’t seen anything.

Between gasping breaths, Tommy had managed to make a good point. At least it wasn't Sarah who’d found them.

You gonna tell me who the lucky lady is, big brother?

He didn’t. Not yet.

It’s been so unbearably hot all day.

Too hot to work in the open air, and though Joel’s not grateful for the heat, he is grateful for the chance to stay at home. A chance to catch up on chores while Sarah basks in the AC at school, a chance to work his way through bills and invoices, fighting to keep his head clear of any thought of you and what you might be up to in weather like this.

He keeps his eyes carefully trained on numbers, figures, dates, unaware of the clock, unaware of the calls he’s missing. Only catches himself daydreaming when the lines start to blur.

He makes it to just past lunchtime when he hears a car pull up in the driveway. He knows the rattle of that engine, the heave of noise it makes as it turns off.

He stands from the table, blood racing in his chest.

‘God- motherfuckin’ shit,'

Joel lets the front door hang open behind him, folding his arms across his heart as you try and jam your wing mirror back in place.

‘You kiss your grandma with that mouth?’

You grin, flipping him off as you slam the door closed. The mirror sticks.

‘Yeah. Suck your dick with it, too,’

His lips quirk, watching as you stand with your hip against the front of your car, a box in one hand, the other shielding your eyes from the sun. Staring at each other, a little game you play. You watch his smirk grow, feeling the trickle of sweat down your spine.

‘There a reason why you’re here?’

You roll your eyes, like it should be obvious. And it is obvious, but -

‘Freezer’s fucked,’ you huff, and Joel raises an eyebrow. ‘Can I put them in yours?’

You hold the box up to him.

‘Popsicles?’ Joel frowns. You roll your eyes at him.

‘Please, Joel. They’re literally the only thing keeping me sane,’

He scratches at his jaw, pretending to contemplate.

‘I dunno, darlin’,’ he says, ‘The only thing? Surely that AC of yours is doin’ a fine job,'

You scoff at him, folding your own arms.

‘That old piece a’ shit ain’t doin’ nothin’ and you know it,’

He chuckles, letting his arms drift to his sides.

‘Guess I can take care of ‘em for ya. Anythin’ else?’

You bite your lip, eyes glinting in the sun.

‘Can I come in?’ you ask. A slow, smug smile grows across Joel’s lips.

‘'N do what, exactly?’

You pout at him, fluttering your eyelashes. His cock twitches.

‘Just wanna swim in the pool. Promise I won’t do nothin’ else, Mr Miller,’

‘Nothin’ else, baby?’ He says, lowly.

You shake your head, eyes wide. Picture of false innocence.

‘Nothin’ else,'

If there are two things Joel has come to know about you in the last year, it’s that you’re a great fuck, and a bad liar.

He steps back into the open door behind him, grinning as you skip past him into the hallway. He watches, snicking the catch and lock as you make your way into the kitchen, swinging open the refrigerator door, finding a spot for your iced treats. He follows, leaning against the doorframe, watching as you stand in the cold air flowing from the appliance for a moment, your eyes closed.

He’s looking at your legs when you turn to speak to him, snapping to meet your gaze as though he’s been caught doing something he shouldn’t. That ship sailed long ago. You grin at him.

‘Whatcha been doin’?’

He exhales, stepping closer.

‘Workin’,’

You hum, meeting him beside the kitchen table, surveying the stacks of paper.

‘Not too hard?’

‘Hard to, when I'm thinkin’ ‘bout you,’

You grin, twisting to look at him.

‘You sweet on me, Miller?’

He shrugs.

‘Bout time you noticed,’

His hands find your waist as yours make their way up his chest, his shoulders, winding around his neck.

‘I had my suspicions,’ you whisper, before pressing your lips to his. He smiles into it, parting his lips to invite you in, rocking you back and forth in his arms.

‘Missed you,’ you breathe, and he hums in response.

‘Missed you too, baby,’

You’re salty sweet; warm scent of your skin, your sun lotion, your perfume, your sweat. When he’s satisfied, done licking lazily into your mouth, exploring the taste of your lips, he moves to your neck. Laving kisses there, biting, sucking, nibbling as you sigh against him. He bites harder, earning a particularly needy whimper, hands moving to knead the flesh of your ass through your dress.

‘Joel,’ you murmur, ‘You’ll leave a mark,’

He hums, trailing kisses up your neck to the space behind your ear, along your jaw, before finally meeting your lips again.

‘Don’t care.’

He’s grasping your hips to turn you so you’re pressed against the table, your back to his firm chest. You can’t help the gasp, the giggle that floats from you as he tugs you closer, as you feel the heft of him pressed into the small of your back. You shift your hips, brushing against him, slow and purposeful.

Joel groans - a long, drawn out, hungry sound. He pulls your hips tighter to him, moving against you just the same before his hands slide up to your breasts, holding the weight of each in his palms, squeezing and rolling a nipple between his thumb and finger. You tip your head back against his shoulder, and he hums approvingly as you begin to grind against him in earnest. He pauses only for a moment to pull your straps from your shoulders and work your dress down to expose your tits, and then he’s on you again. Teasing and stroking and pinching, your hand gripping his forearms as you huff and whimper, caged between him and the table. You moan his name, bleeding every once of want you feel into it, hoping he can hear just by the sound of your voice how wet you are for him.

‘Dreamt about ya last night,’ he rasps in your ear, and you flash him a dazzling, breathless smile.

‘Oh yeah? ‘N what’d ya dream about, cowboy?’

You whine as he crowds you, leaning down to suck another bruise into the junction between your neck and shoulders, whiskers bristling against your skin, hands hot and heavy everywhere they can find purchase.

‘Much rather show you,’ he rumbles.

You nip your bottom lip between your teeth, shooting him a wicked look over your shoulder. His eyes crinkle, and as he spins you to face him again, he moves to pinch your jaw, just rough enough to curb your inevitable wise ass response. He watches as your eyes glaze a little, soft slump of your shoulders as he gives your head a little shake. His cock is achingly hard.

‘Upstairs. Now,’

As soon as he backs away from you, you’re sprinting towards the stairs with a shriek. Joel is close behind, and you can feel the heat of him, enough to set your heart galloping in your chest. Something primal urging space between you, something base wishing there was none.

You clatter through his bedroom door, whirling to face him - bare chest heaving, lips curled. He pauses in the doorway - so tall and broad, so imposing - shoulders straining against his t-shirt, curls frayed from your hands. He steps in, swings the door shut behind him, and then he’s closing the space easily - one, two, three - gathering you in his arms until you’re on tiptoes, pawing at the flesh of your ass through your sundress. Obsessed with it. You on him, him on you.

He needs this like air.

His breath is hot against your lips, mouth needy and wet as you open yourself to him. He licks into your mouth, kissing you like it’s something you need to take from him, like there’s something you need to understand through the action alone. He fiddles with the flimsy material of your half-removed sundress, pulling at it a little.

‘Take this off,’ he growls, nipping at your lips.

You step back from him as you push it past your hips, the fabric pooling to the floor in seconds, leaving you in your panties. He bites his lip, murmuring a fuck before stripping himself of his t-shirt. Glorious tan chest, slightly lighter than his strong arms, shoulders seeming even broader, smattering of hair that leads down past his navel, his smooth belly, the constellations of freckles that join beneath your fingertips.

You busy your fingers with his belt as he cups your face once more, pressing kisses to your hairline, your forehead, your cheekbones. You’re giggling, trying to see what you’re doing through the blur of his face and hands, but then his palms are moving lower, groping at your breasts again, swiping his thumbs against your taught nipples, groaning against your mouth as you dip your hand past his unfastened belt and fly, into his boxers to cup his silken skin.

‘How’d that dream go again?’

Joel smiles against your mouth, giving a harsh twist to each peaked bud before beginning to push his jeans further down.

‘Kneel,’ he commands.

You drop to your knees in one swift motion, biting your lip at him as he whips his belt from its loops and throws it to the corner of the room. Your eager fingers curl under the waistband of his jeans, inching them and his underwear down.

‘Don’t know how you’re wearing jeans in this weather -’

‘Cos I knew you’d be here some point to take ‘em off me,’

You smirk, blinking up at him through your eyelashes.

‘Who, me? I don’t know what kind of girl you take me for, daddy, but…’ You’re chewing your cheek to try and temper your look of amusement, but Joel gives in immediately. Goofy smile, all teeth, eyes crinkling at the edges. He cups your jaw as you wrap your hand around his base, pulling him out of his underwear, soft black material barely holding him in.

His body moves with the first pump of your tight fist, the swirl of your thumb when you reach the head, spreading the pearl of precum beading there as he hisses. Thick and pulsing in your hand, velvety smooth, you trace its lines, veins with a delicate finger, press a kiss to his tip. Joel’s nostrils flare.

‘So pretty,’ you murmur, and that smirk tugs at his lips again.

‘I say you could touch it?’

You roll your eyes, quirking your head at him.

‘Didn’t think you had to,’ you shrug, ‘Kinda comes with the territory of tellin’ me to get on my knees -’

He scoffs.

‘Alright, smart ass,’ tangling his fingers in your hair, ‘Make me proud.’

You smile broadly, before inching closer, moving your mouth with your hand to chase down his length. You always know how to shut him up, and right now, the sight, the sound, the feel of you taking him all on the first try makes him fucking dizzy.

Hot and wet, the ridges of the roof of your mouth like satin around his cock, jumping as it hits the back of your throat and further, twitching again as you hum around him, opening your eyes - doe-like, watering already, the pinch in your brows telling him what you need to hear.

‘Good girl,’ he groans, ‘Good fucking girl,’

It’s the encouragement you need, moaning again as you pull back to the tip, taking him back in again as you bring one hand up to scratch at his thigh, the other moving from his length to his balls, cupping them softly, squeezing, rolling, and he’s on fucking fire. If there was ever a chance he was going to hell before, he’s sure the way you make him feel will send him there regardless.

You’re taking it slow, steady, making him feel every inch of your mouth as you moan and breathe, so intense that he can feel his tip heating - a kind of overstimulation - as he lets little moans slip more freely from his lips. Sighs and mutterings, breathless praise, wrecked groans as you start to move faster, jaw falling open. A steady stream of salt on your tongue, the taste making you keen for him, press your nose to the skin above his cock, making you forget anything outside the taste of him in your mouth. The hand on his thigh moving to work his length as you pay special attention to his head, your hips bucking unconsciously. His stomach jumps, lungs heaving as he massages your crown, as you kitten lick and swirl your tongue down the vein on the underside, rewarded with a sharp, wanton gasp as you pull back to slap him against your tongue.

You watch as his pink tip flushes a darker shade, as it dribbles even more, feeling him jerk in your hand. Spellbound, slack-jawed at the way you take him, at the way you want him, like the taste and the pressure is never enough. How you always need more, more, more, and he’s getting closer, closer, closer -

He pulls you off with a deep, guttural groan - missing your mouth the minute it’s gone, resisting the temptation to shove himself back past your lips and come down your throat.

You gaze up at him, pouting, straining against the hand in your hair.

‘What? Didn’t I make you proud, cowboy?’

He tightens his grip, tips your head further to meet his gaze.

‘Bed,’ he commands, relinquishing his hold, ridding himself of his remaining clothes as you do yours, clambering up onto his bed, settling yourself on your knees again, wiggling side to side, your wide eyes rapt, wired. Chin wet, chest heaving, fingers twitching in your lap, he makes his decision almost instantly. Steps forwards, fingers brushing against the inside of your knee. Your legs part automatically, and he follows the contour of soft skin in the inside of your thighs right to the very top, no grace in the way he swipes his fingers through your folds, collecting the wetness there. And there’s so much of it, so much you feel proud of the way his eyes darken when he feels it.

‘What’s this, baby?’ He coos, repeating the motion as you whimper, as your shoulders hunch and your chin tips down. He lifts it with a finger and thumb, before cupping your face. You nuzzle into the touch, eyes hungry. ‘Oh, pretty girl,’ he murmurs, smiling again, ‘This happen while you were down on your knees sucking daddy’s cock?’

You snort softly, forehead knocking against his as he crowds closer.

‘Fucker-’ you start, but it’s cut off by your gasp as he easily slips in two thick fingers. He tuts.

‘Try again,’

‘Yes,’ you whisper, ‘Fuck yes, it did,’

He kisses your nose, pumping the digits slowly.

‘Gonna have to do something about that then, aren’t we?’

‘Please,’ you breathe, and he removes his fingers, slipping them into his mouth with another groan, tasting you - fuck.

‘Hands and knees, baby,’ he says roughly, and you obey.

He pushes you forward so your chest is pressed into the sheets, nipples catching on the fabric, sweat soaking, cooling against the bed. Your breath catches in your throat - good girl, like this - and he’s pulling your hips up towards him, gripping the flesh at the backs of your thighs to spread you. Your knees slide, pliant with the need that scorches through you, and you press your cheek into the duvet, trying to angle your head so you can watch him watching you.

And fuck, is he watching you. Eyes blown, lips bitten, a depraved intensity settling in the way his jaw flexes. You bunch your hands into fists on the cotton, shuddering as his palms run over your curves - hips, waist, hips, ass, thighs - before they stop, parting you for him again. You can’t help the way you present yourself to him, the way your hips tilt when air meets your bare cunt.

‘Atta girl,’ he mumbles, ‘Look at all that. You makin’ a mess f’me, baby? This pretty little pussy achin’ for what I wanna give her?’

You muffle your response, so fucking desperate, against his sheets, clutching the material tighter. He swipes both his thumbs through your folds, tracing the seam of your cunt, spreading the slick there to shine against your skin, teasing one digit at the entrance of your hole, the other inching its way - agonisingly - towards your clit. You throb, and he watches a bead of slick dribble down your folds, grinding himself against the bed as his cock jumps.

‘Is she, baby?’

You gasp, turning your head to him again. His eyes meet yours, dark, burning.

‘Yes,’ you half-moan, half-sob.

He hums in response, before turning back to your spread cunt. The thumb making its way towards your clit disappears, and you scrunch your brows together in disapproval, mouth working around a strangled please- before the sensation is replaced by his warm breath, then his firm tongue as he licks you from your clit to your hole.

The cry that forces its way past your lips is strangled, choked, stuck in your throat as you clench around nothing at the contact.

‘Oh, fuck -’

And he chuckles against you, at the way your legs almost give out, wrapping his strong arms around your thighs in an effort to hold you upright. You squeeze your eyes closed as he licks further - Joel, fuck - seeking your clit again, pulling it between his lips, dragging his face against you, like he needs it, like he can’t be apart from you.

He sucks a little harsher, and at the very same time, you feel the tip of his nose edge against your cunt. You moan, a fractured sound, and he pulls you towards him again, pressing the curve of it further inside, moving his tongue in circles. You’re seeing fucking stars.

Breath shuddering out of you in high pitched gasps, toes curling against the pressure that builds so quickly already in your gut, unable to move, to find any relief as he mouths at you - ravenous, cramming his face, his fucking nose, as far into you as he can, slurping and sucking, letting his teeth graze you gently when you try to protest - too much, close Joel, ‘m close, fuck -

He pulls back just as suddenly as he came near, swatting your ass quickly, once, twice, before leaning back in. You barely have time to register the sting, how it flares goosebumps up your back, what it means, drunk on the feel of his mouth on you. He begins the same onslaught, sucking, licking, groaning at your taste before the knot tightens again.

‘Yes, please, Joel, please -’

But he’s gone again, that same firm hand landing on your backside as he pushes himself up, loosening his arms from their vice grip on your thighs.

‘Not yet,’ he rasps, ‘Not yet, gonna come on my cock, yeah? Get it nice and wet, show me how much you like it?’

You rock your forehead against his mattress, waves of pleasure rolling through you, cunt fluttering, still so exposed to him. You take too long to answer, moaning loudly as he taps his palm against your soaked folds. You jolt, hips moving instinctively, finding nothing. You shudder a breath.

‘Yes, wanna come on your cock, I need it daddy. Need you inside me, need you to fuck me, need to come, Joel, please -’

He pulls you by the hips to the edge of the bed again, one palm kneading the flesh there, the other sliding three fingers through your arousal, bringing the wetness to his cock, slicking himself up. You raise yourself up on your elbows, looking back at him, and Joel's heart almost gives out. That perfect little pout, the sweat dripping down your forehead, the bead of it that travels down the valley of your spine, shining against your skin. Every inch of you so perfect, glossy in the heat, his. The patch he loves so much at the bottom of your back, just before the swell of your ass, even better, impossibly, from this angle.

He holds you still with the grip on your hip as he nudges the tip of his cock against your entrance, and your breath stills in your lungs. That first press, the pressure, the beginning of the stretch, the way you contract around the promise of it, waiting, waiting -

Waiting.

Joel smiles, though you can’t see it. His body pulled taught, barely resisting the urge to push himself further into you.

‘Go on, pretty girl,’ he says, ‘Wanna see you fuck yourself on it. Show me how bad you need it,’

You hear his breath catch the moment you begin to slide down, and then the room is silent, save for the buzzing of his fans and the sticky sound of you pulling him inside. When you reach his base, nestling against the hair there, you both let out an honest, drawn out groan of relief. You’re so full of him, the stretch welcome, pressing against a sweet spot deep inside you, just enough to leave you breathless. You can feel him pulse in time with your heartbeat, feel yourself grow wetter, begin to drip down your thighs as you breathe heavily, as his grip grows firmer, as his fingers slide to the crease between your thighs and your stomach.

‘Move, baby,’ he pleads, sounding just as wrecked as you feel.

So you do. Slow, methodical, so you can feel all of him. Every inch, every vein that makes you clench around him, that makes him groan low in his throat. You know he wants it faster, that this time he wants more, but you’re too busy indulging yourself, focused on the drag of him against your walls, showing him how he takes care of you, making sure he watches how he fills you, how well you take him.

When the pressure begins to grow, when he coos at you a little more, you move with more force, fucking yourself back, your noises coming louder, higher pitched, while his grow lower, as he babbles to you more and more.

‘Fuck, look at you, baby. Look at you. Take me so good, take me so deep. Perfect pussy, made f’me, ain’t she? So pretty baby, so pretty the way you stretch, feel so good, so good, darlin’, fuck -’

He’s almost too caught up in the way your ass recoils against his thighs, the way your pussy moulds itself to him, that he misses the tell tale signs of you about to come. The way you gasp, the way you tighten and throb, the way you fist the sheets around you, the way your body begins to lock up -

‘No. Not yet,’ he grits out, pulling his hips back, pulse pounding in his ears as he watches your body try to chase his before he grips you again, turning you onto your back.

You’re sobbing around your plea - please Joel, been so good, just wanna come around you, please baby - but he’s steadfast.

He wants to see your face when you let go. Wants to watch your eyes roll, wants to watch you arch, wants to see the way your stomach lurches -

You scrabble for him, slurring your words, so fucked out - please Joel please, please baby, god, I just need - as he arranges your legs so your knees are bent, so your pretty little pussy is exposed completely to him - need you, please fuck me - before he swipes his thumb against your clit again, just to hear your broken whine, the hiccuped sigh, the way your body twitches, so close.

He pauses, holds your thighs wide open before him, towering above you. You reach to skate a hand up his tan belly, fingers scraping through the hair there, the muscled lines leading down to his cock, enjoying the thrum of his heart beating through his skin before he knocks it aside, pursing his lips and spitting straight onto where you are connected.

It turns you half-feral, rearing up towards him as he speaks.

‘There we go, baby. This what we need,’

The first thrust in takes your breath away.

And he doesn’t give you any chance to get it back.

He sets a punishing pace, feeding you his cock with dogged precision, consumed by how you look spread beneath him, with how puffy and slick and shiny your pussy is, how it splits around him.

Thick heft of him sawing in and out, the way you clutch at him, sucking him back in, tighter and tighter each time, like your body is already missing him. So wet slick is smeared around your thighs, soaking Joel’s lap, leaking down into the cleft of your ass. He kisses you, slow and deep, gasping and panting against your lips. Guttural moans from him, needy little whimpers from you, the sloppy sound of pleasure.

He breaks away from you when the kisses are splintered by gasps of air, fixing his mouth to your neck, inhaling deeply there, pressing his lips to your shoulder, lower, the top of your breast, your sternum, before closing them around your nipple. You keen as he scrapes his teeth over the sensitive bud, hands flying from his flexing forearms to his hair, scratching his scalp, moaning his name, chanting it - Joel, Joel, Joel, Joel.

He sucks harder, tongue working around the flesh before he does the same to your other breast, fingers slipping down over the damp skin of your belly towards your sex, seeking that last nudge you need to send you flying over the edge.

Tighter, wetter, arching to meet his mouth as you gasp and plead - gonna come Joel, gonna come, please can I come, please, please -

You barely register his nod against your chest, barely hear him gasp ‘Give it to me baby, good girl, that’s it,’ before the flood overwhelms you, clawing through your body, ripping through you like flame. Your body tenses, jerks, hips stuttering against him, pussy throbbing as you cry out, pleasure flushing through you all the way to the top of your head. Aftershocks flare like fireworks behind your eyelids, hips moving frantically with his to chase the very end of your orgasm.

Joel watches, chest hot, stomach tightening with that tell tale taughtness - oh, shit baby, yeah, s'that good? - before his own eyes squeeze shut, his body faltering, pushing all the way up against your cervix as he pulses inside you, filling you with warmth, spilling himself until it begins to leak between your thighs.

He gives a couple of softer thrusts before he groans again, hearing you whimper, ears ringing, pulling out just to watch himself drip out of you. The sight makes him greedy, makes him press it back into you even as you hiss in protest, too sensitive. He looks up just as you crack an eye open, an arm swinging across your forehead.

‘Jesus fucking Christ,’ you mumble, a smile growing before he breathes a shy laugh at the ceiling. He loves the sound of your giggle as you watch him.

He crawls back up your body, ignoring how the heat begins to creep back in, become formidable again. He presses kisses to your collarbones, your neck, your cheeks, and you thread your spare hand back through his hair, enjoying the way it looks, mussed by you.

His sweaty forehead presses against your sternum, laving affectionate, wet kisses there as you come down from your highs, panting in the warm air of the room.

You continue to card your fingers through his damp curls, staring up at the ceiling fan as it whirs and spins above you. Your eyes flutter closed, content.

‘You’ll have to get Sarah from school soon,’

He grunts in acknowledgement, nuzzling into your ribcage, licking at the salty skin before nipping it between his teeth. You giggle, body lurching away slightly before it’s fixed in place by his wide palms at your hips. ‘And I have to be home before four,’

He groans, pressing a kiss to the underside of your breast.

‘Come over for dinner,’ he murmurs, ‘Tell your dad we're hangin’ out, gettin’ to know each other. I’ll grill some stuff. You bring some more of those popsicles,’

You snort at him, huffing something about how nothing will get grilled if you’re watchin’ me suck on a popsicle, even as your chest and cheeks heat, before he slumps on top of you, plush lips crushing against yours in a searing kiss, tongue licking into your mouth, setting you ablaze again beneath him. You moan as he moves to your neck, sucking and biting and bruising.

‘Come,’ he groans into your skin, ‘Promise you’ll come. I'll make it worth your while,’

You offer him a breathy laugh, a sure at the double entendre with sparkling eyes. Your back arches, hands gripping his biceps as he languidly moves lower, taking your nipple in his mouth. He swirls his tongue around the raw bud, grazing it with his teeth before sucking gently.

‘Joel -’ you gasp, clenching your thighs together as you wriggle beneath him, meeting his warm brown eyes as he looks up at you through his eyelashes. ‘We need to -’

He cuts you off with a sharp nip at the puckered flesh. He turns his head to the side, checks the watch he’s still wearing, and fixes you with a dark, hungry look.

‘Reckon there’s time to go again.’

#joel miller #joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #joel miller smut #joel tlou #joel miller fanfiction #tlou fanfiction

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serenity-loves-red · 17 days ago

Text

IT STARTED WITH THE CAT DISTRIBUTION SYSTEM

Part 1. Part 2. Part 3. Part 4. Part 5. Part 6. (Current) Part 7.

Cat distribution system featuring Phainon.

In which• The Deliverer of Amphoreus is suddenly transported to your home as a cat.

You returned home late that day. There was an unexpected group work that needs to be submitted by tomorrow morning. So instead of going home by 3pm, you’ve returned home around 8.

Fortunately, you’ve left Blue and Princess enough food and water that’ll last them the whole day.

When you opened the door, you got yourself quite a scare when you almost stepped on an orange fur rag you remembered not having. What you do remember having instead however, is an orange pomeranian.

“Oh my god! Princess!” You exclaimed. “Did I hurt you? Oh gosh, I’m so sorry.” You hurriedly picked him up, inspecting him closely.

When you saw no signs of injury, you quickly gave him few head pats and cooed at him, totally forgetting about your bag you randomly thrown near the door due to sheer panic.

Princess and Blue are much important than that bag to be honest. You’ll just picked it up later or something. First things first is to check on your 2 babies.

Holding Princess securely on your arms, you proceed to walk inside to find your other fluffy roomie.

“Blue?” You called out. “I’m home Blue! Where are you?”

When you felt Princess started to squirm in your arms, you gently lowered him down. He let out few high pitched bark and stuttered few steps forward, as if urging you to follow him.

“You know where he is, Princess?” You asked, curiously. Princess barked in reply.

“You can understand me too, hm?” You laughed. “Well aren’t you smart? Then please do lead the way Your Highness.”

You followed Princess and found Blue pacing back and forth like some kind of stressed mother near your couch.

Upon seeing you trailing behind Princess, he gracefully strutted and rubbed your legs. You heard his sharp meows and hiss but never did he tried to bite your foot.

He must’ve been worried this entire time, you thought correct. If only you can understand his meows, it was full blown combination of both concern and nagging.

Mydei, however could understand. It was chaotic and amusing for him to hear the Mr. Blue Balls the Deliverer get worked up like this.

“Snuggle Gremlin! It’s late, do you know what time is it? *nag nag nag*”

Hmm. That name isn’t that bad. You know what, Mydei shall call you that from now on. He must get back at you for his name somehow.

“Yes, yes.” You soothes Blue who sounded really worked up. “Let’s save that for later ok? I’ll make it up with you after I eat dinner. Promise.”

You picked up Blue who started to melt with your pats. His ears must’ve been really that sensitive, you mused.

Although this situation was supposedly impossible and alarming, Mydei couldn’t lie that somehow this doesn’t feel bad. Oddly enough, just like the deliverer, he felt oddly calm and genuinely happy even thought he just had been here a little to no more than a day.

You saw Princess sat next to your feet. If you remembered correctly, you haven’t given him a bath yet, no? Since he’s going to stay here with you, a proper bath is a must before he is allowed to sleep at the bed with you.

“As for you my little Princess,” you said. “We’ll take a bath together later.”

…What? Did you just-

Mydei quickly snapped his tiny little head towards Phainon, hoping that he must’ve just misheard it somehow. Must have been the wind™️

“Good luck Mydei.” He saw his mouth moved. “May Nikador bless you in this battle.”

“…”

You know what– he takes back everything he just said!

You can’t just do this to him! He may have turned into a dog but he wants to keep his chastity and innocence so don’t you dare put your hands on him!!

Extra

#hsr x reader #honkai star rail #honkai star rail x reader #hsr mydei #hsr #mydei #mydei x reader #hsr phainon #phainon x reader #honkai star rail mydei

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littlejoels · 2 months ago

Text

"well hello"

request: hiiii!! saw ur baker fic & loved it was wondering if you could write teacher!fem!reader? like she’s one of the teachers in Jackson and ofc ellie’s in her class and ellie LOVES HER talks about her nonstop and bothers joel. one day at pick up he finally sees her and he definitely understands what all the hype’s about now. It can lead to smut or not whatever you want I love ur writing <333 word count: 1,3k warnings: +18 minors dni, too lazy to write more but there's smut and language!

it’s just past three, and your classroom still smelled faintly of chalk dust and damp wood. ellie was long gone, already bolted with a bounce in her step and a grin that cracked sideways when you reminded her that her essay on pre-fall governance systems still needed citations. you really liked her. she was smart-mouthed, whip-quick, a little feral in that lovable way if there was one.

you were gathering up worksheets into one neat stack when there’s a knock—barely even that, more like a hesitant tap. you look up, and there he is.

joel miller.

you’ve heard of him in bits and pieces, mostly ellie’s flippant mentions. "my old man," she says, or "joel says if you give me homework on a friday he’ll riot." the usual teenager noise. but you’d pictured someone rough, maybe grizzled, but the real thing? no one warned you about those bedroom eyes.

he’s leaning halfway into your doorframe, one hand braced against it like he’s not sure if he’s allowed to come in. you couldn't help but take him in; worn flannel, heavy shoulders. his gaze cuts across the room until it lands on you, then lingers like he’s trying to figure out what to say.

“hey,” he says. voice like gravel, but still warm and apologetic. “uh..i’m here to pick up ellie.”

you blink, “oh, she left ten minutes ago. said she was heading home.”

joel blinks right back, slowly this time. you watch his mouth twitch, not quite a smile, more a grimace of regret. “of course she did.”

“she told me you’d come late,” you add, something about the way he stands there makes you want to offer him anything. a chair, coffee maybe.

he huffs out a breath, rubs a hand over the back of his neck, fingers catching in graying curls. “figures...guess she figured i’d just find my way here anyway.”

“and she was right,” you smile, tucking a stray piece of hair behind your ear, tilting your head. “she’s clever like that.”

his eyes—brown, kind—settle on you again. longer this time. like maybe he’s taking his time to memorize you. your cardigan’s too big, sleeves pushed to your elbows and there’s a bit of pink and orange chalk on your fingers. he sees it all, catalogues it.

“you’re her teacher,” he says, not a question.

you nod, with a small smile. “mhm.. history.”

he nods too, but it’s faint, the air feels weirdly full all of a sudden. he shifts, and you catch the faint creak of leather from his belt. the man is solid. not just physically, though, lord, yeah, that too—but there’s something rooted in him.

“she talks about you,” he says, breaking the silence.“a lot.”

you swallow, “i hope it’s all good things.”

his mouth twitches again, and this time it’s definitely a smile, a crooked one but a smile nonetheless. “she says you’re smart. don’t take her shit. and that you swear sometimes when you’re grading papers.”

you laugh, nodding at the ellie's silliness. “that’s true.”

“she likes you.”

something about the way he says it makes your stomach do a little flip. the way his eyes don’t leave yours. how his voice drops on that last word—like he’s testing the water.

you could say something flirty here..something coy. but instead—

“do you want to get a drink sometime?” you blurt, then immediately feel heat crawl up your neck. “i mean, just, if you’re free..and want to.”

joel doesn’t blink, he just stares for a second at you; you could tell he was wondering if he heard you right.

“yes,” he says, so fast. “yes, i would love to.”

it was now saturday night at 7:00pm, and you were second-guessing all off it, thinking that you should've canceled.

you tell yourself it’s because of the cold—there’s a chill in the air but not threatening enough to cancel. it’s because you haven’t dated since coming to jackson.

but you show up to the bar anyway. it’s small, just off the main road. the smokey firewood smell clings to the ceiling beams, and old pre-fall songs hum low through restaurant speakers. joel was already there when you walked in, sitting at a corner table, hands curled around a glass of brown.

he stands when he sees you. such a gentleman.

“you came,” he says, and he looks so sincere about it your chest hurts.

“of course i did,” you say, sliding into the seat across from him.

he orders you a drink, and for the first few minutes it’s causal talk: ellie, school, the town, then it starts to slip into something else.

“you always this quiet?” you ask, teasing.

he raises a brow. “you always this bold?”

“bold? please...you should see me on parent-teacher night. i’m a badass.”

he chuckles and it’s soft and full of sweetness. it makes his whole face change. you sip your drink and watch the way his eyes crinkle when he smiles.

“what about you?” you ask. “always this broody?”

joel leans back, one arm slung over the back of the booth. “only when i’m tryin’ to impress someone.”

“you think it's working?”

his eyes flick down to your mouth, then back up.

“yeah,” he says. “think it is.”

later, when the drinks are gone and the once big fire is now burning low, he walks you home. the streets are too quiet while snow comes down in soft flakes. his hand brushes yours once. then again, finally on the third, you just take it.

your fingers tangle easily, like they’ve been doing it forever. at your door, there’s a pause. his breath plumes in the cold. his eyes search yours, asking without words.

you don’t make him ask.

“you want to come in?”

“yeah,” he says again, that same voice, full and sure. “i’d love to.”

the door closes behind him, and it’s like the air shifts with warmth.

neither of you says anything for a second. his eyes are still on you, dark and lustful. you can feel the beat of your heart, too loud in your chest. his fingers twitch like he wants to touch you, but he's too hesitant.

so you take his hand again, lead him inside, past the coat hooks, into the living room. you turn to face him, suddenly unsure. “joel, i—”

he cuts you off by kissing you deeply. you open your mouth under his, and the kiss deepens even more. one of his hands cradles your face, the other grips your waist. he pulls you in as you moan into his mouth.

he groans low. “fuck,” he mutters against your lips. “you feel good.”

you thread your hands into his salt and pepper hair, dragging his mouth back to yours. you break for some air and he chases your mouth, kisses down your jaw, and your throat. his beard scrapes against your skin, making you wetter than before.

“bedroom,” you say.

he lifts his head, eyes blown wide. “you sure?”

“yes,” you breathe. “joel, yes, please.”

you don’t remember the walk to the room. it’s a complete blur, hands under shirts, skin on skin, maybe a bit of grinding.

he undresses you slow, like he’s afraid to rush it. and when he’s finally bare before you—he’s so large, scarred, and beautiful—you pull him down onto the bed.

“look at me,” you say.

he does as he slides into you, slowly and unhurried, one hand pressed to your cheek. the rhythm starts off slow. his breath catching on every thrust as your nails claw at his back. he kisses you and talks you through it. over and over.

“been thinkin’ about you,” he says, voice ragged. “since the first moment..couldn’t stop.”

“me too,” you whisper. “joel—don’t stop..please don’t stop.”

he fucks you so well and lovingly. God, you can't remember the last time you felt so good. and when you both cum, shaking and holding on to each other. you think to yourself, maybe jackson was a good move.

special tags: @inbred-eater , @wintfleur , @lowrisemiller

#𓇢𓆸 requests #joel miller #joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #joel miller x y/n #joel miller smut #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller tlou #tlou fic #joel x reader #joel x you #joel x y/n #divider by @i-mmaculatus #gif by @ransomflanagan

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jinxificada · 10 months ago

Text

leave it to her.

troublemaker!jinx x people pleaser!reader

summary: for once, you were taken care of.

cw! public humiliation slur mentioned (dyke) jinx is not romantic risky sex masturbation fingering (r!receiving)

men dni. 2,7k wc.

never, in a million years, you would’ve thought that you’d see jinx crying. definitely not in such a… helpless way.

you were on your way to have lunch at the greenery of the campus, if you were lucky you’d find a nice spot under a tree, but the soft grass under the sun would suffice too. you had a red, juicy apple in hand, a novel in the other and your pretty purse on your shoulder. you were planning to do the best you could with that free period.

that is, until you casually find the blue haired girl crying under the bleachers.

it was out of character, way too far.

you’ve known jinx since… forever. though you doubted she ever noticed you, she definitely caught your eye from a very young age.

you didn’t know much about her home life, apart from rumors and gossip full of inconsistencies, her life history was a mystery. but you just knew something happened around the age of thirteen, because that’s when her personality had a huge change.

from the cheerful, creative, social butterfly powder to the obnoxious, short tempered, problematic jinx. it wasn’t from a day to the other, of course not, but you vividly remember when she mutated skins.

it started by her getting weirdly quiet. it was just strange for you not to hear her loud giggles and excited volunteers to participate in class. sometimes, she would even skip them. then you noticed that she pulled away from everyone. her former friends were mindlessly brushed off as she preferred to sit quietly alone.

she started getting in troubles. kids would accuse her from stealing stuff, such as pencils or lunch money. it got messy real quick, after all, they couldn’t ignore it when it was at least six to seven kids assuring it was her who committed the crimes. parents got involved, but apparently her father handled it very well because soon enough nobody cared anymore.

growing up jinx developed a punk, dark style that got you obsessed for awhile. and she played the part, discussing with the teachers and challenging the authorities, she really seemed to hate the system. and her classmates.

now, maybe, just maybe, you had a crush on her. and you could’ve done something about it, if it wasn’t because she scared the shit out of you.

jinx was a walking trouble. wherever she went, whenever it was, with whoever she wanted. her patience was extremely low and it was obvious she found joy in making others miserable. younger kids were more likely to be her victims, but some classmates were unlucky enough to get involved too.

she never messed with you. and your most logical explanation was that she simply didn’t care about your existence. and why would she? you two were… polar opposites.

while jinx was pure chaos, you were an angel.

everyone’s favorite, specially teachers. not that you were exactly a nerd, but that didn’t matter. so what if you weren’t academically smart? you were adorable, enthusiastic and kind. even the most strict and harsh teacher would feel happy to see your hand raising in their class and answer to your dumb questions. in fact, they’ll use you as an example to encourage others to satisfy their curiosity by learning.

socially, you were a bit awkward, but you always meant well! there isn’t a club you haven’t been a member of, or a student council activity you haven’t volunteered for. you gave free tutoring, shared your lunch to those who didn’t bring enough money, helped carry books or homework models from one side of the school to the other.

in conclusion, you were a sweetheart.

this comes from an early age. when your parents proudly bragged to their friends about how ‘quiet’ and such a ‘well behaved’ kid you were. sure you’ve got yourself in a few little incidents. like stealing a chocolate from the store when you accompanied your mom do groceries. bringing stray animals to your house because you were worried they’d have to sleep alone and making your parents deal with them. or getting caught red handed magnetically reading your father’s porn magazine.

silly little accidents.

you were simply the kindest soul alive. of course you wouldn’t ignore someone crying alone.

your shy steps alerted jinx quickly, her head snapped up and her bloodshot eyes stared at you with furrowed eyebrows.

“what do you want?” she aggressively asked you, there was a vulnerability in her tone that squeezed your heart.

“um, i have tissues.”

your hands trembled as you rummaged through your bag, rushing to kneel in front of her and hand them over. you needed to comfort her, but you also wanted this to end as soon as possible.

her already pouty lips formed a frown, hesitating for a long minute before snatching it from your hand to blow her nose. not another word came out from her, not even thank you.

it was awkward, to stare at her while she cleaned up her wet face. your eyes traveled down to the floor, clearing your throat. “it’s a nice day.”

jinx only scoffed. glancing at you for a brief second before focusing on the tissues. then, she threw it away and placed her chin on her forearms as she hugged her knees, going back to that gloomy energy.

you were unsure, because she didn’t quite asked you to leave, but it seemed that her mind was elsewhere. what do you say now? you didn’t want to pry, in fact, you didn’t even want to know what was tormenting her.

then why did you stay?

you moved slowly, as if any sudden movement would make her notice your presence, you sat next to her, maintaining a respectful distance.

well, grass is grass. though neither the sun nor the wind hit your face like you’d want, it was a quiet, calming spot. so you opened your book and read.

it wasn’t like jinx didn’t notice you, or cared. there was something about your mere presence, it brought her a sense of peace. she kept crying, but she didn’t sob anymore. jinx kinda wanted to scoop closer, to make you round your arms around her and rest her head on your chest. that’s how welcoming your vibe was.

she didn’t, obviously. you both just sat there in silence, the noise of your pages turning and her quiet sniffing, along with the distant laughter from the students, were the only sounds heard.

you could tell jinx’s mind was complex, that was clear like water. it was inviting, the complexity of her person. to be the one to figure her out would be a big accomplishment, but ending up harmless was not reassured. if only you could ask her why was she crying.

she wouldn’t tell you, anyway. how could she explain the pain of her memories, the grief and difficulty in her relationship with her sister?

nightmares were easier to manage. one can wake up sweaty in the security of their home and they’ll be alone, with no eyes to judge your trauma. but the nightmares transformed into sudden flashbacks in the middle of a class, the heartbeat quickens at a scary pace and the breathing gets heavier. and jinx thought, only for a second, that she might die right there.

you didn’t ask her, and she appreciated it. because your presence comforted her in a way no one, and nothing, could ever do.

jinx left first. she had spent the majority of the hour looking at the floor, occasionally grunting, muttering stuff you couldn’t comprehend. but she stared at you for quite some time. she found herself relaxing at the sight of your fingers following the words you were reading, paying attention to the smallest details in your actions. like the little puffs of air and the way your chest rises, jinx’s own breathing started to match yours at some point.

it sent shivers down her spine when she realized. neither of you says a word when jinx suddenly gets up, shook the dirt on her jeans and walked away.

you thought it was over, how silly.

next day you were welcomed by stares and giggles, firstly you just thought everyone was being super friendly. until you got to your locker.

the word ‘dyke’ shined in a fluorescent pink, other small drawings filled the free space. it wasn’t strange for students to decorate them, but this clearly wasn’t your doing, and it was extremely striking compared to your quiet personality. that was jinx’s handwriting.

you chuckled to yourself in disbelief, naively tried to brush a hand to clean it with no success and you hear more laughing. you glance away from your locker, just then you notice people made a round to watch you, some even took evidence with pictures. your cheeks reddened intensely, and you tried laughing with them, to pay no mind to the aggression of it all and laugh it off.

you were boiling anger.

escaping the spotlight wasn’t easy, but you make it to the furthest bathroom. you felt like screaming, your breathing was heavy and little tears tickled the corner of your eyes.

what did you do to deserve it? is that how the universe pays you for being nothing but kind to people? you knew half of the students that were laughing at you. you helped them pass their exams, paid for their lunch, listened to their problems when no one else would. and then they laughed at you.

and what was so funny? how did they even know you were into women? were you that obvious?

while you were processing that and much more in you mind, someone else entered the bathroom. your head snapped towards them, scoffing loudly when you realize.

“dyke?” your voice rumbling in the empty room made jinx giggle, she closed the door and swiftly locked it. there was a very different air coming from her, she looked joyful, lively and mean.

her little mocking smile pretended to look innocent as she battled her lashes at you.

“dyke.” she shrugged, approaching you slowly. you felt cornered, like a prey.

“w—why?”

“w—why not?”

you huffed in frustration, stepping back to try and keep some distance, but she wasn’t having it. “did i offend you? yesterday?” you asked, unable to hold back the little tears.

jinx doesn’t answer, but her demeanor softens noticeably. she reached to brush her thumbs on you cheeks, she felt the warmth of your blush and her heart fluttered. she felt so giddy that it scared her, suddenly pulling back.

“what a dumb question.” she scoffed, messing with her hair as she turned to the mirror, fixing her appearance to her liking. you saw how she purposely smudged her eyeliner and you mentally agreed. it suited her. “when will you learn to mind your own business?” she added your name to the end of the question and it threw you off.

“huh?“ jinx looked at you with nonchalance, slightly amused at your confusion. “what do you mean?”

“you’re always behind other people, offering a helping hand and what not— it pisses me off.” her voice got progressively more annoyed. “you’re only losing time, did anyone help you back out there?”

“w—well, no, but—“

you couldn’t think of anything. she was right, she also approached you again, and her closeness affected you quickly, snatching the words from your mouth.

“b—b—but.”

you grunted, hiding your face in your hands as you leaned back on the wall. “stop it, stop.”

“i’m not doing anything!” she chuckled, comfortably placing herself next to you with her shoulder pressed to the cold surface to face you better. you couldn’t see her, but there was little hearts in her eyes as she gazed you.

“what’s wrong with lesbians, anyway…?” you used your last defense, muffling your words softly against your hands.

which you quickly pulled away when you felt cold fingers tickling the exposed skin of your waist. jinx held you with a delicacy that made your breathing twitch.

“nothing~” she purred, getting even closer as she hugged you from the side. “i love lesbians.” she chuckled again, but it didn’t sound like she was making fun of you now. you were bewildered, but you didn’t separate an inch. “i just couldn’t think of anything else to mock you, heh.”

you knew it was wrong for many reasons, but in the very moment you thought that it was cute. she was cute.

“i… i didn’t knew you…”

“hmm?” she hummed with a smile, placing her lips close to your ear to murmur as soft as she could. “that i was into you?”

she wasn’t making things up. you were simply oblivious. why else were you practically the only one unaffected by jinx’s antics? until today, that is.

if you’d have payed attention, you would’ve noticed the constant staring, the quiet steps behind you. you would’ve understood why some ungrateful students came back at you after a tutoring session to offer you money for your time and effort, you never accepted it, but there was jinx threatening kids for you.

jinx fixation only snapped when you finally offered your attention to her. to have you kneeling in front of her with worried eyes, unsure of how to actually help her and not leaving when she wouldn’t even spare you another glance after accepting the tissues. your kindness made her heart race and she wanted it all to herself.

the silence that filled the bathroom was comforting, though the tension could be cut with a knife. or a kiss, whichever happened first.

surprisingly, you made the first move. tilting your head close enough to brush your lips against hers. you felt her sigh into your mouth before reciprocating. the contact was firm, eager and gentle. could’ve been more romantic if you weren’t in the schools bathroom, but neither of you minded.

she didn’t lose time to press herself into you against the wall, her hands roamed your waist and shamelessly explored under your shirt. the kiss quickly heated up, just like your bodies.

your hands clutched her shoulders to keep her close, though you shy away for a second when her tongue licked your lower lip. “god…” you sighed, mesmerized by the feeling. jinx tried again and this time you welcomed her by opening your lips for her.

she treated you so good, her touch both gentle and hungry made your back arch into her. her tongue conquered your mouth with ease, exploring every inch until one of you pull away to breath.

it was intoxicating, thrilling. the voice in your mind warning you when her hand slipped under your pants got more and more distant. her slim fingers caressed you over your underwear and you reluctantly broke the kiss to whimper softly. it was unknown, exciting. your own hand gripped her forearm as you tried to quiet down.

jinx hummed in amusement, “feels good, hm?” she pecked your lips before moving to your neck. it was only a matter of minutes before you pleaded for more. though your words came out slurred and nonsensical, you had to guide her hand under your panties to make the point.

“y—yeah, yeah,” you kept mumbling, praising the softness of her touch. jinx’s own knees trembled when she heard you moan loudly, her middle finger smoothly entering your pussy. she had to kiss you again to shut you up, but she was fucking you so nice.

you greedily asked for more, muffling against her lips. you wouldn’t even be standing if you weren’t holding yourself from her shoulders. she added another one, setting a soft pace, her curling fingers hitting your sweet spot over and over.

you felt the pressure in your lower belly, “ah, jinx—“ you tried to warn her, but she already had an idea. your walls squeezed her fingers harder, and your hips kept twitching towards her, searching for relief.

“i got ya, baby.” she reassured you, murmuring sweet nothings into your ear as you came in her hands.

jinx was a riddle no one bothered to figure out, not even you. it was a pleasant surprise to be the first to feel how sweet she can actually be. you craved more of her.

it was a weird pairing, people noted. you both mindlessly walked hand in hand the next week, jinx’s uncaring attitude gave you the boost of confidence you needed after being laughed at so recently. [jinx apologized profusely for it.] but it worked perfectly, having each other’s back when something went wrong. there was a special, comforting connection between you two that couldn’t be compared.

#jinx x reader #jinx #jinx arcane #lesbian #jinx x fem!reader #arcane #jinx smut #jinx x reader smut #jinx league of legends #jinx lol #jinx arcane smut #arcane jinx #wlw #jinx x y/n #jinx x you #jinx fanfic

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zankivich · 18 days ago

Text

Good Boy - Michael "Robby" Robinavich x female reader

Summary: 3.1k Post-finale fic in which Robby comes homes from the Pitt in the aftermath of the mass casualty event. The events of the day hit him all at once until you find him in a full-blown panic attack in your bathroom.

Warnings: 18+ content. angst. panic attack. soft bdsm undertones. smut, explicit content. Hand jobs as therapy. color system. comfort.

a/n: I can't believe it took a 54 year old emotionally stunted white boy with a stethoscope to pull me from the depths of fic purgatory. But a'las....for the girlies. I missed writing for sad boys.

It's the short huffy breaths that let you into what's going on.

You heard the initial thrashing as he closed the bathroom door to put space between the two of you, but that could mean anything. Could mean Robby finally hit his limit or your often smart ass mouth for the evening. Could mean the exhaustion of the shift had caught up to him. Sometimes Robby would shuffle over the threshold with the weight of the world on his shoulders, slightly catatonic until morning. He'd come out of the bathroom with water stains on his shirt and toothpaste in his beard, missing his glasses with that let you see the depths of his eyes.

All of that would've been normal dealing with Robby. The two of you had been at this for 5 years and even still it sometimes got to be too much – just existing as humans in the world. You'd learned to listen to the signs even when you weren't asked. Let your body rest against the hallway arch closest to the bathroom for just a few minutes, just to check in. The gasping is what clued you in. You don't hesitate anymore. It's not your style. The need to be there overwhelms you every time.

He's still in his scrubs on account of he'd only gotten home from his shift a whopping 20 minutes ago. Long enough to pace around your kitchen while you got him a beer he couldn't slow down long enough to chug. The panic had been clear on his face after all. You'd should've seen it coming from a mile away.

His back presses against the wall, his head resting shakily between his knees. He keeps trying to force the air past his lips but the rhythm is off kilter. His hands are in fists against his shins. A west gasp echoes in the stillness of the moment and before you know it you're on your knees in front of him.

"Hey. Hey Robby it's me. I'm right here."

Your fingers slide through the thinner parts of his hair at the top spiking the strands roughly in your haste for contact. He pushes into the warmth of the touch and shrugs his shoulders uncomfortably, still not getting the air he needs.

"Robby. I need you to listen to me. Do you want me to take control right now? I need you to use your words."

His chest heaves, the hiss of his lips pulling at the air audible .

"Take it. Take it, please."

And just like that the dynamic of the two of you pulses like a static shift in the air. You cup the back of his neck and pull him in close so that your words can penetrate the sinking hole he's wading in.

"Slow it down for me. I know you're scared. But follow my breaths. You're hyperventilating."

Your free hand works to unfurl one of his fists and lies his palm at the base of your throat. You practice over exaggerating your breaths, letting the rhythm pass between you. He struggles to align himself with you. It’s one good breath for every three that are shaky.

"It's okay. You're doing so good for me. Such a good boy."

His breath hitches at the same language that typically has a much different effect on him. But now isn't the time for shenanigans, you just need him to fucking breathe.

And he does. Slowly between chapped lips and his hand pressed firm against your chest. He breathes out, already exhausted, and the blood pulses bright beneath his skin in unevens swatches alerting you to the extent of his panic.

Robby collapses into you and the gasp of his breath is quickly replaced with sobs that come spilling out one after the other. You work to gather him up in your arms, body shifting against porcelain as you both collapse in a heap.

" it's okay. Let it all out for me okay?"

There's a subtle tilt to your voice. One only Robby would ever notice. A bit of authority and grit - enough to say, “I'm in charge right now”. So when you voice a command it is just that. The man who still struggled to voice his opinion on restaurants was left compelled to voice his own pain. Assuming of course he had any capacity at all to stop this wall from crashing down around him. If nothing else it saves him a little embarrassment, protects his pride long enough to get him through this.

When it’s clear he’ll live to breathe another day, you reach immediately for the jacket shoved up the length of his arms, pushing at the sleeves to start to rid him of a few layers.

“Let’s get you into the shower. Get you warm, hmm?”

He doesn’t push nor voice enthusiasm but he does let you move his body like a rag doll. He lifts his arms over his head for you to pull at the scrub top and under shirt. There’s some creaking in his knees when he stands to let you at his bottoms and boxer briefs. You reach for his knuckles and kiss the skin there, dry from years of alcohol-based sanitizers, hand washing and chronic glove wearing. And finally he catches your eye for the first time since you walked into the room. Tears drip following the slanted slope of his nose, drifting down across curved frown lines from years of existential dread. They’re still present, collecting unevenly in the expanse of his beared as you press a kiss to his face.. Robby is tactile on his worst days. Right now, touch is the only thing keeping him from exploding all over your bathroom.

“I need to get the shower running okay? Just give me a few seconds. ‘Gonna take care of you, I promise.”

He sniffles and nods working his way through another gasp of air.

The sound of the water pelting the shower floor just slightly mutes the sounds of Robby cries, though he doesn’t let up in the time it takes to remove your own sweats from a night long forgotten. Not that it matters. You'd let him cry for hours if that’s what it took. His face has found refuge in his hands and you gently pry one off long enough to lead him into the steam of the shower.

You park him right in front of the heavy stream - letting the warm water do its magic. It gets you a soft grunt for your efforts. You reach for the scentless soap wishing more than ever you’d stuck to your feminine wiles on the use of lavender eucalyptus and lemon blossoms in the bath department. Instead you’d let the old man swap it for more sterile options that did nothing to alleviate the tension pooling in every body part. Also bathtime should be fun. Boo.

Armed with suds you aim first for his hips inching your arms around him from behind to touch at the softness of his belly. It has its intended effect, Robby arching bowed outward like a cat in need of a tummy rub. A man’s tummy is a sensitive place after all, and you wanted nothing more than to add another point of contact to the line up.

He hiccups another tear out and lets your hands sculpt across his form fingers tightening at dense muscle hardened by another day of trauma. His arm. His back. His shoulders. His body is clinging to every ounce of emotion but the dam has finally broken.

“You’re okay now.” you whisper between feather light kisses to his spine. “You’re with me. I only want to make you feel good.”

There’s a hidden understanding between you. You both do this thing where you let all the ugly and the pain fill you up, high functioning your way through life until it eventually chokes you (sometimes literally). It always becomes too much. It’s destined from the beginning in its failure and yet here you are. And what each of you really needs is just someone to stand there and weather through the storm beside you. To seep away a little of the humiliation of feeling things you don’t want to feel.

He can’t speak yet but lets his hand cover yours against his hip. Squeezes in thanks, alarm even. It’s bad this time. How’d it get this bad again?

“I love you, Michael.”

Anything to pull him back into his own body, back into the present with you. Even if it’s using his government name.

Again you earn a little eye contact as he turns his body just slightly towards you, back facing the water now. You reach for the shampoo he keeps in your shower for those nights he oversleeps and needs to make his shift with no time to stop back home. Your toes grip firmer at the tub as you arch up to busy yourself with washing his hair. The sweet nothings don’t stop. Anything to fill this space between the two of you. Try to replace it with something good.

“You’re perfect to me, you know that? Always do exactly as you're told.” You humm in approval. “I’m so proud of you. My good, sweet boy.”

His bottom teeth jut out in pleasure, disrupting some of the mask of his pain and his grief. It’s a start.

Robby lets you rinse the shampoo from his hair. Doesn’t even seem to mind when you scrub your fingers through his beard with that special shampoo you got him for his birthday this year. Typically the beard is sacred. Tonight, nothing is more sacred than your hands on him.

And when he’s all clean and you back him gently up against the corner out the way of the stream, your hands still sudsy with bubbles, all that’s on your mind is pleasure.

Your fingers brush against the length of him with more purpose than before. He jolts ever so slightly in your arms.

“We don’t have to. I can get you straight to bed. You’ll still be good to me.”

He shakes his head. Still doesn’t really have the words to share. But his hands loosen slightly at his sides and he presses the faintest of kisses against your shoulder blade. It’s the most you’ll get tonight.

You slide to your knees letting your lips first get at that jut of his hip where the water just barely mists the skin. Above you somewhere you hear a sigh, notice the broadening stance of his legs as he makes room for you. Your knees give a little creak of their own reminding you of the tenuous nature of shower blow jobs. You’d say a prayer or a hail mary but your attention is a bit diverted at the moment.

Robby thickens in your hand with each passing moment, the sensation alone enough to get him going tonight. Or maybe it’s the need to please you through submission. If only he could be a good boy for the night, then maybe everything else wouldn’t be so impossible in the morning. Breathing wouldn’t be so impossible in the morning. Being wouldn’t be so impossible.

When your mouth is on him it’s hard to argue the semantics of good vs. bad. Your hand is sprawled against the dip in his sternum as desperate to touch him as he is to be touched. The weight of him on your tongue. The leftover hint of soap. His thigh twitching where your shoulder rests to steady yourself. Before you can fully swallow him his hands are circling your wrists to pull you to a stop. So you do.

His voice comes out rough, hoarse from panic and tears.

“Can you just please come up here. I want – want to be close to you”

He helps you stand, opens his arms so you can step into them, and quickly rests his damp head against your shoulder. It’s certainly easier for your knees. And you’d never say no to the way his chest feels pressed against yours.

“It got bad . . . I got bad today.” He admits slowly. “I let people down.”

“I understand. It got to be too much. You got overwhelmed.”

He nodded gravely. “Fucked up. I’m a fuck up.”

You pause trying to parse through the last couple of minutes. Nothing with Robby is ever linear and sometimes you have to go backwards to piece it all together. His hard on pokes against the base of your belly and he shifts to put space between you. You let out a sigh of your own.

“Are you saying . . . that you aren’t worthy of this? You don’t want me to take care of you?”

It’s important not to put words in his mouth. You play back what you hear but you’ve gotta let him paint the picture.

“I’m saying . . . I don’t want you wasting your time on something that can’t be fixed.”

Great so full blown nihilism would be the flavor of tonight's festivities.

“Mhm. Color?”

Robby paused.

“I need to hear your color Robby.”

“...Green. It’s green.”

“Good. So tonight you’re not making decisions on how I spend my time. I am making the decisions. Is that still okay with you?”

He lowers his head but nods.

“Need to hear you.”

“It’s okay with me.”

“Good boy.”

You reach for the lube that also remains conveniently organized within your shower because the two of you are nothing if not organized. You lean back just enough to slide your hand in-between you and wrap your fingers around the head. The world gets a little quieter and his hands find their way to your hips, eyes scrunched closed.

“Look at me.”

His cheeks are blotchy which could be the shower or could be his body’s natural insistence on betraying him in times of anything remotely intimitate. You reach to cradle the swell of his balls massaging gently at the skin. His face lights up at the contact. Bodily reactions it is.

“I love you. I’ll love you tomorrow and the day after that and the day after that. No matter what happens at work. Just let me show you that.”

The swollen head peaks out of your fist the more you work him over and Robby starts to make the kind of sounds you can get behind. Broken whimpers, shuddering breaths (the good kind), and your name whenever you get the combination of stroke and tug just right. The best part is when he digs his teeth into your shoulder to try and silence himself as if that’s an option.

“Uh uhh. I need to hear you. Please? I wanna listen to you come apart for me.”

“Jesus Christ.”

“Not this time. Just lil’ ole me.” You grin.

Was there science to suggest an orgasm immediately after a panic attack was clinically proven to return one to homeostasis? Who knows, you were too busy making your boyfriend cum.

“Please, I–I’m close.”

You feel a puff of breath against your neck as he ruts his hips trying to get closer to your hand. You couldn’t help but notice how good pleasure looked on Robby. The smile lines tightening in the corner of his eyes. And the way his cheeks puff when he’s struggling to keep himself whole, when all you want is the opposite. Want to make him splinter in his release. It’s fucking gorgeous if you did say so yourself.

You let go of his balls and dipped backwards towards his perineum thankful to be with a man secure enough if his sexuality to make space for exploration. You place your thumb against the space there, rubbing with increasing pressure while you pump at the head. His arms shoot out to ground himself against the wall and you smile as you watch him tip delightfully over the edge.

His orgasm comes just as quickly, the last of the panic washing out of him finally until he’s sobbing for a new reason all together.

“Beautiful, you know that? You’re fucking beautiful to me.” You assure him

The water washes away the remnants of the session and it gives you the space to kiss him softly for the first time tonight. His breaths are finally even and his heartbeat calm. It’s all you really wanted since you walked through the door.

There’s fluffy towels on wet shoulder blades and forehead kisses in the hallway. You ease him back against your bed and he lets you take a moment to stare at him unabashedly at him boneless and sated against your sheets.

There’s much to say, hopefully some healing to do. But tonight this is enough. Just the two of you here together sharing in each other’s comfort.

“Thank you.” He mumbles against your chest all wrapped up tight in your arms.

It's both a protection thing in making him feel surrounded by warmth and affection and all things good. It's also a bit of reinforcements so you know he won't go padding around the house working himself up again. Not your first time at the rodeo.

“You’re welcome. Go to sleep. We can figure it out tomorrow. Together.”

“M’kay”

The End.

#the pitt #dr. robinavitch #dr. robby #the pit hbo #y/n #dr. robby x you #dr. robby x reader #dr. robby imagine #dr. robby smut #michael robinavitch #i'm back bitches #for the 5 minutes it takes to post this anyway

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writingwisterias · 6 months ago

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how would eras of leon respond to jealousy/yearning with sex?

Hi Anon!

Thanks for the request...I had a lot of fun thinking about this one 👀

Ok ok I'm cracking down on requests! I promise I needed a day to recover from work 💗

Warnings: NSFW, Yearning, Jealousy, Sexual Tension, MNDI

GN!Reader

RE2:

Just for something different, I'm doing a no Apocalypse AU for this one

You sit opposite him, your desks are connected. You were always so kind to him compared to the other officers

Both of you always get along well when you are paired for patrol etc

But he's not the only one that has eyes on you, every other officer seems to as well

He hates feeling jealous that the other officers are talking to you, touching you as they past and you are entertaining them?

There's a staff party and everyone is buying you drinks and chatting, he barely has a chance to speak to you. After all you are his only friend

What he didn't know is you are frustrated from all the attention and you are just trying to get to Leon

When you finally reach him, he's in a mood and it doesn't take long for you to realize hes jealous.

Maybes it's the drinks in your system or the small crush you have on him bubbling in your chest. But you kiss him

He's shocked at first, but recovers fast. His lips are desperate

Spots all the officers back off when he kisses you, so then his touch becomes possessive claiming you as his.

He'll make sure he's the only one you think about when you both leave and he takes you home. 👀

RE4R:

He's touched starved so anyone even approaches you with the intention of sex he's immediately jealous

He's confident enough that you won't go for someone else, even if you aren't exclusive but he'll be pissed off for a while

His jealous would come out in the form of silence,

like he's giving you the silence treatment until you figure out what's wrong and fix it

I think he would probably insert himself into the situation but more of him being a presence there than actually joining in...again silent treatment.

If you don't give him attention he's very heavy with eye contact, constantly trying to get you in his eyeline so he can watch you

Infinite darkness:

The most verbal about being jealous,

like he will pull you away and probably whisper to you how you are making him jealous

Longer touches as well, on your hip or lower back..he's making sure you notice it's there

I think he'll just constantly remind you of his presence until you eventually cave

To make him jealous it would be entertaining other people in an awkward conversation, like if someones asking you to dinner or whatever and your reply is "I'll have a look at my schedule" or "let me get back to you"

You probably aren't going to do either of those things but Leon doesn't like it, he'll make sure your schedule is full of him

Damnation:

I like the idea that he doesn't care enough to get jealous, like if you don't want him he will accept defeat and it will add to the list of other things wrong with his life

But he won't hide the fact he wants you

I imagine it's a situation where he's rough with everyone but you

The rest of his department constantly digs at him for this, it makes you blush when you finally notice it

Heavy eye contact on you, like constantly watching what you are doing around the office etc

It's when you are on a mission together that you finally cave and give him what he wants, and you definitely don't regret it

RE6:

I think he would be in the same boat as damnation where he doesn't really get jealous but he does show that he wants you

With his intense scenes with Ada as well he would make it even more prominent that he wants you

Whenever it's to show Ada that he's moved on or it's to show you that he still wants you

That's up to you

But he's going to make it known that there's nothing to worry about, he's smart enough to understand how him caring for Ada might seem he's still hung up on her

Vendetta:

I like the idea of you being a bartender at the bar he constantly visits

He enjoys your attention and sympathy, often having long chats about anything but his work

As soon as someone needs you though or you turn to serve another customer he's instantly jealous

You want him too, it's obvious. But not drunk and in the state of mind he's in

You understand that he would be good with that commitment and probably a loving partner but he needs to heal first

You put up with his drunken exclamations how he loves you and wants you, his constant staring and snarling at other customers

It's cute that he wants you that badly but until he sobers up and shows some signs of self improvement you won't do it

It does increase the heat from him, but he'll be thankful when he does eventually get sober

Death Island:

Super super jealous

Like you are an angel in his eyes why are you hanging out with someone else?

Why are you talking to one of his co workers? You don't need to entertain that asshole you are his

You aren't actually though, not yet

Both of you tip toeing on this line of friends and lovers

A game of seeing who caves first

He does, pressing you into a kiss that you can't forget. It was rushed after he had a close call with the virus.

Yet it leaves you logging for more, he's just waiting until you finally admit it to him

#~mads rambles #leon kennedy #resident evil x reader #leon kennedy x reader #leon s kennedy x reader #leon scott kennedy #resident evil #resident evil fanfiction #leon kennedy x you #leon kennedy imagine #~eras leon kennedy #~mads~mail💌

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jsmainblog · 6 months ago

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not alone - spencer reid જ⁀➴ᡣ𐭩

requests are always open <3

spencer reid x lonely!reader

summary: reader is a university student and hits up bars as a product of feeling isolated/blown off from their friends. but this time they meet a very peculiar person who they spend the night with

a/n: okay don't judge this i'm not the best at writing smut this could be really bad

warnings: 18+, oral (f receiving), p in the v, not overly graphic but its still there yk

❤️‍🔥smut

Here you were again stumbling into another bar. It now seemed like a weekly occurence, which seemed a little sad. I mean if you told someone you end up in a bar at least once a week they'd think you'd have some serious drinking issues, or you were depressed, or both. These vists to bars where mainly fuelled by your friends, they were either busy studying or with their boyfriends, sometimes even leaving days to go back home when college got a bit much. So as you seated yourself at the bar you had the usual expectation of how this night was going to go, a drink and people watching probably and sulking, yeah definitely sulking.

You see the usuals at the bar. A family man slumped over his drink morosely, groups of girlfriends getting drinks and celebrating, asshole men hitting on women, two co workers drinking and laughing. Watching these people made your heart ache a little. How you so desperately wished for a little human connection right now. Any connection would do you wouldn't care, a friend, a stranger, even idle talk with bartender. You even wouldn't mind a little bit of physical connection. Your eyes scan the bar until the landed on him. This guy who sat alone sipping on a drink thoughtfully, he looked meek almost. You could tell he was the kind of guy who'd get bossed around alot by women, especially if they give him a bit of attention. So with a hesitant push to stand up you make your way over to him.

"Hi. You mind if I sit?" you question. You see his face properly for the first time.He was young, shockingly younger than you thought with big round brown eyes and soft pink lips. Why, he's got to be around your age maybe 24? 25?.

"Uh no, no I don't mind, don't mind at all." he stutters. You can see the flustered look on his face obviously indicative that he dosen't get approached alot.

"So whats your name"

"Spencer Reid. I-uhm whats your's?"

"Y/n. So what college do you go to?" you inquire. Maybe this could be your chance to befriend someone to lean on when your friends unsurprisingly blow you off once again.

"College? No I don't go to college, I uhm work for the BAU full time at the FBI." he states. Well that shocked you a bit. This young, lanky looking guy who looked like he couldn't lift anything heavier than a chair was in the FBI? You have got to be joking.

"Don't you have to have a degree for that? And your like what? 24? 25? Degrees take a long time so I'm not understanding how that lines up. Unless your a genius or something."

"I have an iq of 187, an eidetic memory and can read 20,000 words per minute" he rambles, but he notices you shoot him a 'get to the point look'. "Yes I am a genius. And to answer your question yes you need a degree, sometimes even a PHD or a B.A."

You look at him baffled, you could've deducted he was smart from his nerd get up but this smart? Wow how were you supposed to keep up?

"Wait so how old are you?" you inquire

"24"

"Oh same" you say which brings a smile to his face. A very sweet handsome smile. Oh my god are you seriously rambling about some genius you met in a bar less then 10 minutes ago?

"So whats you degree in?" You ask

"Well i have multiple degrees. I have 3 PhD's in chemistry, math and engineering and I have two B.A's in psychology and sociology. So I'm assuming you're a uni student whats your degree in? "

"History."

"Oh yeah?" he says intrigued

"Yeah." you echo like a prayer. This Spencer guy was clearly flustering you a tad and massively impressing you.

So it was even more of a shock to the system when you are clumsily unlocking your apartment dorm with his arms wrapped around you from behind sucking on your neck. The two of you still tipsy crash your lips into one anothers as soon as the door closes. You didn't have a lot of time to think but you could tell where this was going. Now Spencer is a attractive genius you met at a bar 2 hours ago, how well is he going to go during sex? The horrifying thought of him being a virgin crosses your mind as well. You wouldn't usually take a chance on a guy like Spencer but you were lonely and now well a little needy. By the time you two are stumbling into your bedroom practically glued to each other you've accepted Spencer may not satisfy you at all. You were kind of okay with that. At least you were with someone and not sulking alone in your room which you usually do at this hour.

You sit back on the beg tugging on his tie signalling for him to come with you.

"Have you had sex before?" you breathe into his lips. He laughs softly. Why was he laughing? Was he nervous? Did he think your ridiculous for asking such a question?

"Yes I have. Why don't think I can satisfy you baby?" The term of endearment flusters you once again. 'I can't believe you are getting so nervous around a guy who probably plays crosswords in his free time' you say mentally scolding yourself.

You spend so much time talking to yourself in your head you don't even notice the lower half of you is naked and he's eating you out like a man starved eliciting little moans from you. Oh so he's good. You were a little annoyed about his awkwardness falsely led you to thinking he would suck. But you were so wrong. You can't even focus on the pleasure he's giving you because your just thinking about him. How.. No, no not perfect he is. Okay well maybe he's a little perfect. No hookup had ever treated you so gently before. His hand's cradled the backs of his thighs tracing little comforting patterns. You had to admit it gave you a little whiplash. Here he was being all gentle and soothing while his head was practically smooshed into the junction of your thighs. Your hand combs through his mousy hair tugging at the strands. No hookup had ever even bothered on foreplay ever, or was so generous. Your general conclusions about hookups is that 80% of the time it was more about them than you. But, it seems Spencer Reid was an anomaly. When you feel the familiar feeling of warmth and tingles wash over you he kisses your legs softly.

"Your being so good for me." he mumbles more to himself then you and you smile at his praise. He positions himself over you ridding himself of his clothes and the rest of yours between kisses.

"Seems like I got you all smiley huh sweetheart" he teases which earns him a nod and he chuckles leaning into give you a gentle kiss. The way he made you feel when he was inside you was like heaven on earth. Not only did he make you feel physically good, but he made you feel good about yourself. Confident, safe, perhaps even a little loved?

"Yeah that's it. Your being so good for me angel. There we go. Feels good huh? Better than you expected?" he murmurs gently. You roll your eyes at his little surge of confidence but nod a little as your hands tangle together.

"You're so beautiful" you blurt starry eyed before whining.

"Thank you, I should be saying that to you, you know but looks like you beat me to it." he laughs. Before you knew it that wave crashed over you again a little harder this time leading to you moaning his name a little louder than you would've liked. His movements sped up, he himself whining and groaning loudly before squeaking. His release leaking into the latex sheath. You were right about one thing he was a little submissive after all. He slowly guides himself out with a soft pop, discarding the now sticky latex and pulling his boxers on. You try to sit up but his hand guides you to gently lay back down.

"Stay there, let me go get something to clean you up angel. It's the least I can do for you." he whispers pressing a kiss to your cheek before wandering off to the bathroom. You lay there and sticky satisfied mess. Without Spencer you felt a little cold and empty, but he made you feel more at ease and safer then you'd ever felt before which astounded you. He comes back with a warm wet cloth wiping down your intimate areas and sweat all while murmuring sweet words of praise and compliments.

"Do you want to stay here tonight?" you mumble quietly.

"Yeah if that's okay with you my apartments a little far from here. Just.. if I leave before you wake up I'm sorry but my work's pretty demanding. "

"No thats all good." you say as he pulls you to settle in his arms.

"Thank you" he whispers into your hair.

"For what?"

"For letting me see you like that." you smile at his sickenly sweet sentence. 'Is this guy real?' You think to yourself as you drifted into sleep enveloped by his arms.

The next morning your bed's empty but your not too torn up about it because Spencer warned you the night before. You sigh rubbing your face as you sit up and spot a note on your bedside table.

"Y/n I'm sorry that I had to leave I got called in on a case. I really enjoyed what we did last night and again I want to thank you. In fact, I liked it so much I wanna see you again. Maybe this time with a little more clothes on so we can get to know each other a bit better. Anyways heres my number and I hope we can get coffee or something along those lines its really your choice . But hopefully sometime soon :)" - Spencer

You smile at the note giddily. Maybe this was the start of something great?

#spencer reid is a munch confirmed #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid #criminal minds #spencer reid is so sweet I'm gonna cry I wish he was real soooo bad #spencer reid smut #munch

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minkieater · 10 months ago

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luck → jyh 🂡

“if you are unsure on who is going to win, always bet on yunho.”

yunho x fem!reader | yandere! yunho | drinking, smut minors dni, stalking, yunho’s fucking crazy | 7.7k | carousel & three fate’s sister

♫ —vermillion, slipknot “my dahlia bathed in possession, she is home to me.”

his right hand completely enveloped two dainty, fragile wrists connected to two perfectly manicured hands, pinned above a very beautiful fucked out face. the french tips stared back at him as he lost himself fully, buried deep inside someone he most certainly should not of been. as he reaches the hilt of his pleasure, he lets it rush through him, consume him for that stolen moment of freedom before it drags him down all the same.

he retracts his hand as he pulls out, taking a breath, but no time to waste, he has someone waiting at home for him, after all.

the sweat is wiped off his forehead and his pants are zipped up before she could come down herself. it never really bothered him much, the cheating thing, but then again, he never really thought twice about it. he’s always done what he’s wanted, he’s never had any reason not to.

he knows if she found out it’d be the end of their picture perfect relationship, and as inconvenient that situation would be, it makes the doing all the much more exhilarating.

his heart is never fuller than when he’s with her, that pretty little thing. standing at a petite five foot something, her head reaches just the tip of his shoulder. it makes him feel powerful with his over six foot build, towering over her, having to bend at the hips to steal a quick kiss on her always glossed lips.

she was perfect to him, perfect for him, but yet he couldn’t let go of sinking himself into anyone that looked at him with a twinkle in their eye. she’s smart, funny, thoughtful, attentive, and overall just sweet. but he loved the attention, loved the adoration, he loved to feel loved. wanted, lusted, appreciated — sometimes one person’s captivation just isn’t enough. it was never enough for yunho.

he had the same routine whenever he did it, his little addiction: find his toy for the night, leave the bar, have a quick fuck, hurry back to the bar, cover his tracks, get home.

even the nights she was at the bar he’d sometimes make it work, the logistics of it are all his genius, but he’d do it and he’d do it well — she would never question a thing. no one got his number, no one got his full name if they didn’t already know it, and no one expected to see jeong yunho again after that one quick half an hour, if that, spent with him. somehow, all the odds were forever in his favor.

that was, of course, until he met you.

everything he thought he knew about his relationship, everything he thought he felt about his sweet little girlfriend, this perfect system that he’d created for himself, all of that went straight in the shitter the second you batted your eyelashes at him the first time.

she was at home, sleeping soundly, which he was sure of because she had a shift early the next morning, he was out with a few of his friends after a long night of studying. she never waited up for him, never questioned who he was out with, she had full and utter faith in him. which, essentially, was her downfall.

four beers and two shots deep, his waist was bent over the bar for yet another beer, no longer seated on the stool at the table with his friends. across the bar, he saw you, and the room went silent for a moment. beautiful face, perfect build, everything he looked for in a woman. he knew exactly who his target was tonight, and you knew it, too. but you didn’t find that out until later.

you were preoccupied, talking to one of his friends, actually. you had full intentions of trying to take that husky, tall, blonde haired man home with you that night, yunho could read it all over your face. that couldn’t happen, that won’t happen.

mingi would understand, right? he needed mingi to understand. he wanted you. he needed you.

he waited until he got his beer, he even took notice of the bottle in your grasp and bought you another, too. he made his way around the bar, a predator stalking his prey, strides fluid and smooth like a snake preparing to attack.

“you do know that you’re not supposed to take drinks from strangers, right?” you look to him with an eyebrow raised, and he knew then and there he was fucked. glossy lips, hair done to perfection, dress perfectly clinging to your curves — he wished he could cut straight to the point, snap his fingers and he could skip the build up and sheer work it took to get you where he wanted you.

“who said we were strangers?” the same eyebrow lifts on his own face, smirk taking a now permanent seat on his lips, clinking his beer with yours in cheers. fortunately for him, game was his forte, mingi had to know he was a goner already.

“i guess we don’t have to be,” you finished off your previous beer at the same time he did, trading it for the new one he brought, “this is the yunho you mentioned, huh, mingi?”

“yeah, yeah, this is yunho,” mingi nods and his cheeks flush, out of embarrassment or annoyance, yunho wasn’t sure. he wished he felt worse for completely dogging his friend’s play, but when it comes to this, came to you, yunho physically could not hold himself back.

“and who are you? since you know everything about me already,” that cocky smirk won't leave his face, and you’re not hiding that it’s driving you insane. good, just how he wants you. curious, interested, maybe even craving. easy.

you introduce yourself, shifting your weight from one heeled foot to the other, “dunno everything about you, but can’t say i wouldn’t like to find out more.”

check mate. mingi takes this as his cue to turn on his heel, bidding both of you goodnight. yunho would have to call him tomorrow, give him a proper apology.

an hour later he had you on your back at a nearby motel, barreling inside of you like it was the last thing he’d ever do. when he gets into these situations, he’s never one to play nice, never sticks around, a big hit it and quit it type of guy, but what can he say? he’s got a beautiful woman waiting for him at home.

but that night … that night he had the most intriguing woman he’d ever encountered beneath him. he even made you cum first, not something he usually tries to do, never a goal for each person on his list despite not a single one leaving his presence unsatisfied. seeing you across the bar was the prologue to the novel you were about to write together, sweat and spit the pen and paper.

he couldn’t leave you that night. he knew he should’ve went home to her, he knew he should’ve gotten your last name, he knew he should’ve at least used a condom. but he didn’t.

the first time he saw you, he knew he should’ve stayed the fuck away, knew he should’ve kept his routine consistent, he knew you’d be the one to send his head into a spiral. jeong yunho knew a lot of things, he’s a smart guy, but greed sits at the top of the list of his flaws, and you brought out the worst in him.

maybe he needed a little bit of humbling, a wake up call of sorts, but the last thing he expected was waking up to the bed empty, a ghost of your figure laying next to him, the sweet smell of your perfume and sweat lingering in the cheap cotton.

the worst of it all, he hasn’t seen you since.

which brings him to two weeks later, where he emptied himself in yet another woman who looks like she could be your distant cousin, maybe a good friend that ever so slightly resembles you. maybe he’s just been looking for you in every single cervix he’s touched since that night.

on the ride home, his brain is elsewhere, as it’s been after every single hook up he’s had since you. when he gets home and his pretty little girlfriend is waiting for him, he can’t bring himself to question why she’s awake, not when she’s pecking kisses all over his face, telling him how much she’s missed him. completely oblivious, a small part of him thinks she’s fucking ignorant for it.

he knows what’s to come. if he keeps going down this road it’s only a matter of time before his feelings toward her turn resentful, he gets meaner, she gets insecure, he gets aggravated. he can see it play out in his mind, yet he’s indifferent. with her, without her, he doesn’t care. all he wants is to see you again.

if he could, he’d have no need for the girlfriend that waits up for him after the bar. no requisite for her making his lunches, washing his hair, doing his laundry, unzipping his pants after a stressful day. yunho wishes he could love his girlfriend the way he always had, but the truth is, the first time you sunk your teeth into him ruined any future he had with her.

a month later, he saw your friend again. the one from that night who stood by, observing, looking through yunho like he was transparent, naked to the human eye. across that same bar, he couldn’t contain his surprise, couldn’t stop himself from widening his eyes or dropping his jaw. an invitation, an opportunity, an answer for his questions, first being where the hell have you been? when will he see you again? did you mention anything about him? did you at least admit he was a good fuck? he’s bursting at the seams with impatience, heart pounding so hard against his broad chest he could hear it.

she didn’t give him much, not that he went about it in an inconspicuous way. pestering her with questions, pushing for answers, trying his best to seem interested but not flat out creepy. it didn’t work very well. he couldn’t contain his excitement, his urgency, his yearning, she could see straight through him once again. he was off his game.

what she did give him was your last name, a common last name which was surprisingly a nickname for you used more often than not. she didn’t even notice the reveal of this key piece of information, not even when the wicked smile threatened to crack his best innocent facade.

he didn’t sleep with anyone that night, didn’t look for you in any women at that dingy bar. he did go home and sleep with his pretty little girlfriend, who once again overlooked the smell of infidelity and heineken oozing from his skin, as she always does. when her eyes closed and her breaths turned rhythmic and slow, he pulled out his phone, deciding to do his research in the dead of night.

there were plenty of people with your first and last name, but there was only one you. he found you with ease, and your page takes him by surprise. you post everything. it tells him so much, too much, and gives plenty of ammunition for his right hand that couldn’t resist the ache in his dick. by the point of post nut clarity, he’s cooking up an idea, which turns to an objective, a plan. he fell asleep with a smile on his face and a sense of urgency he couldn’t wait to fulfill.

he waits until the next weekend, and not patiently. he’s checking your instagram every day, watching your stories off of a burner account, he nearly starts a list in his notes of places you frequent, your orders from coffee shops, things you like. he’d have to tell you to stop making it so easy to know you, understand you, to find you.

it’s clear you’re a free spirit, not a thought in your brain that someone is watching you, examining you, waiting for you. but he wants you this way, oblivious, unsuspecting, surprised when he shows up to your place of work. maybe you’re used to the attention, yunho thinks, you’re beautiful and you definitely know it, too. as much as he has the urge to hide you, keep you from desiring eyes, he’s proud, in a way, that you can show yourself off so openly. you won’t hide yourself the way his girlfriend does, you didn’t shy off from him for a moment in those four hours he spent with you six weeks ago.

his friends are surprised that he wants to go anywhere besides his favorite dingy bar in the middle of manhattan, especially with the luxury of a VIP section and bottle service, but he doesn’t kiss and tell. he quickly blamed the hastily prepared outing on his friend’s internship acceptance when his friends questioned the occasion, he’d rather them be unaware. especially with his girlfriend present, much to his dismay. he let them think he’s just a good friend, despite his intentions being more than culpable. the less they know, the better, even though a couple of them definitely have an idea — he couldn’t hide it from everyone.

when they finally made it to the line outside of the nightclub, a smaller group of six, muffled pounds of the heavy bass from inside only increased the sweat on yunho’s palms. he knew you were inside, in a tight little bodysuit, sparkly tights and a pair of heels on your feet. he wished he could blame the adrenaline as his pants grew tighter, not on the fact that you were inside, not knowing he gathered a whole group of people and improvised an entire celebration just to see your face again.

he immediately skipped the line, telling the bouncer his last name, and got the group inside with ease. different hues of purples and greens and blues reflected the ceilings, the walls, the tables, the floor. if he wasn’t so one-track minded he’d be overstimulated. he was brought to the section with his friends following closely behind, he forced the adrenaline to leave his face, his body, his hands. his scheme was set in motion, he needed to lock in, let go of any emotion that might incriminate him, make him seem suspicious.

he ordered bottles, vodka, tequila and whiskey, three chances for you to make your way around to his section, maybe carrying a sign or carrying a bottle or simply clapping and cheering with your coworkers. when he met you, he didn’t expect you to be a bottle girl at a night club, but he supposed that explains why you haven’t been back to his favorite bar. he assumed you were a full time student, but if he had to guess, maybe a retail employee or a coffee shop barista, something simple, just to get the bills paid so you can live as freely as you want. he was thoroughly mistaken, yet he couldn’t complain.

especially not when you made your way over to the table, bucket of ice and mixers in your hands, a huge smile on your face. he knew exactly what you’d be wearing: a tiny little black bodysuit that left nothing to the imagination, sparkling tights that mirrored the strobe lights so perfectly, a pair of heels so high he wondered how you were walking so smoothly. that wicked smile appeared on his lips again, the pride of victory flowing through his veins, despite him willing away any emotion reflecting on his face. he should’ve known his body wouldn’t listen to him when it came to you, but his plan had worked, you’re here, bringing juices and sodas and not helping his dick that refuses to soften in his jeans.

he catches your eye and keeps it as you bent forward, setting down the bucket on the table, someone else putting down the bottles beside it. yunho couldn’t be bothered to notice anyone else, not when you keep eye contact as the little show you put on ends, definitely not when you stare over your shoulder as you and your crowd go back to wherever you came from.

as you get back behind the bar, a rush of adrenaline racks through you, you could feel the buzz all the way in your fingertips and toes. he’s here, he’s here, he’s here.

you immediately run to the bathroom, checking your makeup, adjusting yourself in your outfit. he was the last person you’d expect to see tonight, you’ve never seen him here before, haven’t seen him at all since that perfect night you spent together. the past six weeks you couldn’t get him out of your mind, couldn’t stop thinking about his long fingers, long legs, he’s long everywhere. you’d never had a better one night stand — you cursed yourself every day since leaving before he woke up, not leaving him with at least your phone number. but a saturday night spent in a hotel, blocks down from that dingy fucking bar, he definitely didn’t want anything more from you than a quick fuck, never to hear from you again. you could be okay with that, you needed to be okay with that.

“boo, could you grab me a bottle of casamigos from the back?” the main bartender for the night asks as you walk out of the employee bathroom, frantically looking for someone to help her out.

you pause for a moment, her question ripping you out of your daydream and you nod in response. you hurry to the back, grab a bottle, and make your way out to the bar.

the spotlight from the dance floor might as well of shone directly on him as he stood at the bar, taller than everyone else, a sore thumb despite his dark clothes. you took a breath, a smile on your face, excitement flooding you.

“hello there, stranger,” you say as you drop the bottle on the shelf then turn to him, “you guys went through three bottles that quick?”

he shakes his head, “i like to take my time, you know that.”

“i know that very well, spine breaker,” you plant your palms against the bar, shifting your weight to one foot. behind the bar was slightly staged, that in combination with the heels, yunho’s height didn’t seem as intimidating.

amusement laced his features, “then why’d you leave? i would’ve taken even longer in the morning,” he quirks a brow and your mouth forms a small ‘o’, that was the last thing that you expected out of his mouth.

you shrug casually, not believing the words out of his mouth, “that holiday inn wasn’t very… enticing. if you were trying to romance me you should’ve at least taken me to a marriott.”

this makes a chuckle escape his lips, “my bad, just wanted to get you under me as quickly as possible.”

an ah leaves your lips with a nod, “which you did, so why are you standing at my bar? can i get you something?” you couldn’t exactly place why your tone turned irritated, you might’ve been hoping for a little more than that.

“another night with you,” the corner of his lips pull up, a smirk appearing on his face, that same fucking smirk that pulled you under him in the first place.

a laugh barrels out of your mouth before you can stop it, “go back to your little friends and get away from my bar unless you’re buying me a shot, yunho.”

your words are leaving your mouth before you can think about them, your mouth moving faster than your brain. the last thing you want is for him to leave, walk away, forget about you. you wanted the same thing he did, even if you wanted more.

he leans in closer and you fight the urge to step back, his tight jaw and lowered eyes daring you. you don’t give in.

“oh? was that a no?” his expression doesn’t change despite his playful words, “what a shame. i’ll meet you after your shift is over.”

he turns to walk away and you can feel the heat in your cheeks. you call after him and he turns with a single eyebrow raised, “meet me where?”

“wherever the closest marriott is,” his playful smile returned to his lips, the same one you met him with. it excited you and made you nervous, you weren’t used to meeting hookups at hotels.

their apartments, whether they live alone or with roommates, yes, but never hotels. it made you feel like a hooker first, and that’s usually a red flag and means someone is married, or worse, still lives with their parents. living in such a huge, expensive city, a hotel for a night isn’t cheap at all whatsoever. you decide not to think about it too much, let yourself bask in the excitement of being with him, and look forward to an entire night dedicated to letting off some steam.

“who was that?” yunho’s girlfriend asks when he slides into the booth next to her, petting his bicep. her question is full of innocence, her eyes still bright, slightly glazed over with need, definitely from the one or two shots she took in his absence.

“mingi’s favorite fling at the moment,” he gives her a tight lipped smile and kisses her head, pulling her closer to his side. mingi was always the easiest out, she bought it every damn time.

the rest of the night he sat with his cute little girlfriend on the booth wrapped around the table, he didn’t see you again. he was fighting to keep his excitement to himself the longer he got away with it — not just his girlfriend seeing you, but you seeing his girlfriend, who wound up basically on his lap the more she drank. his friends drank and danced, the six of them together finished all three bottles, a few of them even moved out to the dance floor instead of their private section. as much as yunho hated places like this, he loved to be with his friends, see them happy, spend time with them in such a carefree environment.

when it came up on midnight, yunho decided it’d be best to head home, taking his girlfriend with him. she fell asleep as soon as her head hit the pillow, which she usually did after a good fuck. after some drinks in her, he knew she was out for the night, she’d sleep through a tornado. not that there would be one in new york city.

he even had time to shower before he headed out for the night, literally choosing your preferred hotel closest to the club. he got a room and headed over to the bar, having another drink or two before they shut it down for the night. he waited past two, three…

it was 3:45 and he started to lose hope. he realized you’d never even said yes — were you even going to show? did you forget in the craziness of your shift? what time did the club even close? when did you usually get home? these kinds of hours really mess with someone’s sleep schedule.

every few minutes he’d glance at the glass doors, hoping and praying you’d walk inside.

ten minutes past 4, you finally did walk through the revolving entrance, and relief rushed through him. ugg slippers, sweatpants, a hoodie and your hair tied up, all he could think is how excited he was to take it all off of you. his skin was burning with impatience, he almost leapt off his seat.

“i was starting to think you forgot about me,” he starts, a curated smile placed on his cheeks as he slips from the faux leather chair.

“a part of me didn’t think you were serious,” you respond in the same tone, coming to a still in the middle of the lobby.

he couldn’t place the emotion in your eyes, you looked unsure, nervous even, from across the lobby. he made it to you in two quick strides, towering over your small frame.

“yet you still showed up,” he wore the same face from earlier when he stared you down over the bar, eyes low, hungry. he could smell you, nearly taste you on his tongue. you still had your makeup on and he immediately knows there’s no way you had time to wash up, for some reason it made his pants tighter.

“here i am,” you shrug, picking at your sleeve. you looked so small, your cocky demeanor from earlier far gone, replaced by uneasiness, an emotion he hasn’t seen on you yet. it fed his own power trip, in combination with his figure that completely enveloped your own, he felt on top of the world. like he owned you already.

he huffed out a small let’s go and grabbed your dainty hand that peeked out of your sleeve, guiding you to the elevator, up to the room.

“this is nice,” you compliment the suite, blacks and grays and wood accents filling the space.

“everything you dreamed of?” he sits down on the bed, legs spread, hands behind him.

“i wouldn’t say that,” a small smile appears on your face as you tuck a stray hair behind your ear, standing awkwardly in front of him.

“no? after i got exactly what you asked for,” yunho slips a tsk out, tilting his head to the side and his chin up, staring you down from under his eyebrows.

your giggle is nervous, “that’s not what i meant. i’m just wondering why we’re at a hotel,” your curiosity got the best of you, you physically couldn’t hold the question back, unable to shake the feeling of something being off.

“do you want me to be honest, or lie?” he asks, his voice full of amusement. the question takes you by surprise and you have to think about it for a second, there’s layers to that ask. layers you don’t know if you want to peel, something about his tone makes you not want to know the truth.

“lie,” your voice is barely above a whisper, and a shiver crawls up your spine. that off feeling must’ve been your gut, fully awake now, talking to you, screaming at you, saying you shouldn’t be here.

“i live with three guys, don’t wanna keep them up all night,” he licks his lips, the lie so evidently fucking clear on his tongue, the lie you asked for. the lie you needed to go through with this despite your gut begging you otherwise.

you let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding, “that’s nice of you.”

he shrugs, pulling his hands into his lap, slouching forward ever so slightly, making himself smaller. his body language is intentional, he could read it all over you that you didn’t need to be intimidated, you need to be comforted. feel at ease, feel the want, feel that same primal fucking hunger that was beginning to consume him.

“i’m a nice guy,” his face contorts, an easygoing smile on his lips instead of that dangerous smirk, “come here, stranger.”

he uses the same word on you that you used earlier and it evokes a smile from you, a genuine smile, he’s grateful that’s all it takes to crack you open. he didn’t have it in him to try anymore.

as you take two steps forward he leans back, displaying his lap for you to sit. you wrap around him, your knees hugging his hips, your arms wrapping around his neck.

“there she is,” his voice is sweet and soft, laced with desire as he looks up to you, shifting himself under you, “been so long.”

you whimper out his name, immediately feeling him press up into you, your eyebrows furrowing. you wanted to be okay with this, wanted to press your gut feeling down, but you couldn’t.

he mumbled out a hm? as he pressed close mouthed kisses to your jaw, his brain already miles ahead of you. you wanted to say fuck your curiosity, fuck the truth, fuck whatever he’s hiding, but it’s eating at you. you can’t relax in his touch the way you’re desperate to.

“wan’ you to be honest now,” it was half a moan when it exited your lips, and yunho didn’t miss a beat.

“no you don’t,” he spits out too fast, the truth keeping itself hidden somewhere beneath his heavy chestnut bangs. his hands traveled up your back, beneath your hoodie, “i missed you, wanna taste you.”

as his tongue makes contact with the column of your neck you let out a hiss, his touch feeling like electricity, sending your brain elsewhere.

he could tell. he could read it all over you.

he could feel the stiffness, the discomfort that touched every bone in your body, he was over it. how did he get here? he just wanted to see you again. he shouldn’t of answered that question the way he did and he knows it, but he also is willing to bet his life on the fact that you’ll fold. he can’t find a single scenario where you leave him, all alone in this suite, spending the night by yourself elsewhere.

he thinks on it for a moment, an evil thought crossing his mind for a second, that one second easily spinning him into a spiral. did you have something else lined up? is that why you wanted to leave so bad? you were seeing someone else after him? an emotion he can’t explain is simmering inside him, something between rage and hurt and the urge to prove himself. he’ll show you why you missed him, why you needed him, why no one else will ever fuck you the way he can.

he attacks your neck instead, sucking harshly and groping your ass under your sweatpants, making you jolt forward into his chest with a muddled moan. he chuckles in a low tone before picking you up and putting you on your back in one quick motion. you yelp at that, no doubt taking you by surprise, he can’t help but keep laughing. the laughter is dry, it’s knowing, it’s a little menacing, too.

as he attached his lips onto yours, he can feel you physically melt into him. your body softens, that tension that once sat in your shoulders now gone, your fingers pulling into his hair.

finally, he thinks.

once again, jeong yunho’s winning streak continues, and he can’t help the prideful look as he looms over you.

you audibly said fuck it.

as long as his lips were on yours, his dick continued to press into your too layered core with experienced fingers touching every bit of your skin, you didn’t fucking care. you didn’t see a wedding ring and, shit, if he did still live with his parents, the hotel room was pretty nice. you could live with that.

your body felt hot — too fucking hot. you had too many layers on, too much weight on top of you, impatience was crawling up your throat.

“take this off,” you tugged at his shirt, mumbling between kisses, and he obliged. you took the moment of freedom to strip yourself of your hoodie, unclipping your bra with one hand.

he watches in amusement, lips glossed over with your spit and a still growing tent in his jeans. you’re thirsty, you’re hungry, you’re itching for him. and he can read it all over you.

“take it easy, we have all night, princess,” he comments, yet his pupils are blown and his hands immediately flocked to your chest, “such perfect fuckin’ tits.”

“take it easy, my ass,” you laugh before he shuts you up quick, attaching a slick mouth to one of your nipples, making an involuntary gasp leave your lips. you arch your back and your head digs into the pillow, sizzling hot pleasure coming from every nerve ending, a moan leaving your lips as two fingers wrap around the other and pinch.

“fuck,” you’re hissing out in pain and pleasure and he switches, soothing the sore one over with a soft tongue, rough fingertips tweaking the other. you buck your hips up and he chuckles into your chest, the vibrations against you only made you moan louder.

he finally pulls away, looking down at you with hooded eyes that matched your own, paired with a snicker from your reactions, “you gonna survive me this time?”

you smack his bicep with a laugh, “fuck you.”

“patience, baby,” is all he responds as he reaches for the waistband of your sweatpants, pulling them down in one swift go. you feel the cool air hit you and you can feel yourself steaming, body too hot for the chill of the room that you didn’t notice until now.

he peppers open mouthed kisses along your stomach, all wet and messy and hot. you whimpered, your hips bucking again at the stimulation, body craving more. muscle memory took the driver’s seat from the last time you slept with him, your body knew what was to come, and the anticipation was killing you.

he spreads your legs, a strip of black lace standing between yunho and what he would choose as his last meal. he uses the pad of his thumb to rub you through your underwear, making quick circles across the bundle of nerves. his pressure was too light to get any real friction and you buck and twitch against his thumb, but he catches you before you can get any satisfaction against him.

“yun, please,” you beg, chest growing hot. your knees are nearly touching the bed from your legs spread so wide, you didn’t have the energy to endure the teasing.

“please what?” the corner of his mouth lifts, brown hooded eyes full of amusement. you whine, frustration getting the best of you, not a care for what you look or sound like. you needed friction, relief.

“finger me, eat me out, i don’t care, please,” your words are rushed and breathy, audibly impatient. embarrassment is last on your list of worries right now.

“yes ma’am,” he nods and pushes your underwear to the side, not even taking the time to fully take them off of you. you mentally thank him for it.

he’s quick to spread your slick up your slit, letting out a pleased noise at how wet you are. you were wet the second he said the word marriott at the club, it’s been steadily accumulating since, you thought about him and what’s to come nonstop until you clocked out. he pushes a finger inside, hooking it upwards, pulling a guttural moan from inside you, ripping you out of your thoughts.

your head shoots back into the bed, back arching, hips bucking into his hand for more. his other hand goes to grip onto your hip as you steadily rock against his finger, he’s amazed at how hungry you are for it, how shameless you could be for what you needed. he’s watching with wide eyes, not even pushing back into you, letting you guide yourself to pleasure against him. letting you use him.

“almost forgot what a fucking slut you are,” his teeth are showing through his wide grin, eyes dark and glossed over. you’re a moaning mess, words already mushing together into something entirely unintelligible, grateful for some form of relief even though its nowhere near what you need from him.

“only f’you,” you mumble out in between moans, eyes opening to see his gaze strictly focused on your cunt that’s swallowing his finger so greedily, “more, please?”

“awh, you my nice girl tonight?” he finally meets your eyes, “whatever my girl wants.”

he leans down and accompanies his finger with his mouth, immediately wrapping his lips around your clit. you yelped out, hands reaching out to tug at his hair, pulling him closer to your throbbing clit. he flattened his tongue against your folds and you started weeping, moans and words combining into a string of noises.

he added another finger inside you and started at a brutal pace, tongue flicking at your clit at the same rhythm. his fingers curled with each thrust, looking for that sweet, spongy spot inside you. as your fingers tightened around his roots and a loud cry left your lips, he knew he found it.

“taste so fucking good,” he said into you, not even bothering to look up at you. he was lost in your pretty pussy, the pussy he’s been dreaming about for weeks. the same pussy he’s been wishing for during sex with every other woman since you. now he has you under him, naked and screaming for him once again. yunho was overflowing with satisfaction and pride.

satisfaction, pride and a lust so great, his cock began aching in his pants. he started grinding against the mattress mindlessly, in the same rhythm as he was using on your cunt, small moans and grunts leaving his lips just adding to your own pleasure. you could feel the familiar knot in your stomach tightening, building steadily.

the same as him, you’d also been looking for another life-changing fuck since that night you spent together. all the worries you felt earlier were long gone, like they never happened in the first place. all that mattered was yunho and the impending orgasm he was giving you, this is all that was important to begin with.

“close,” you moaned out, “i’m sofuckingclose yunho don’t stop!”

he let you have it, let it consume you. it nearly blinded you, your orgasm, your head dug so fucking deep into the mattress and your joints locked up so hard it had you seeing stars on the inside of your eyelids. he guided you through it, steadily pumped his fingers and kept his pattern on your clit until you were thrashing against him, hands pulling up on his hair to get him off of you.

he had half a mind to keep going, pleasure you through the overstimulation, he needed to see you cum again. with your eyes rolled into the back of your head, back arched up and lethal noises leaving your lips… he could watch it on repeat for days, months, years. it’s his new favorite movie. he let you come down, tore his lips off of you, slowing his fingers movements down to nothing.

he quickly crawled back up to kiss you, tongue sliding into your mouth, and you tasted yourself happily. your hands trailed up his arms that stood strong beside your head, then down his chest, down to his waistband. your fingers slipped underneath his boxers to grip his length, and the action almost made him cum in his pants, his patience is running too thin. he’s so fucking horny, so blue balled by the mattress he just fucked his hips into like a middle schooler, he needed release and he needed it fast, despite wanting this night to last a lifetime.

his hips bucked into your hand and you giggled, “i think you missed me.”

“you have no fucking idea,” is all he responds as he pulls away from you, slipping his sweats down to his ankles and then off of him entirely. you make quick work of getting your panties off, the black lace seeing enough action for one night. you needed to feel him against you, all of him, no barriers.

“enlighten me then,” you spit into your hand as he crawls above you once more, spreading it all over his already leaking cock. he grunts out, hips twitching, he needed you just as bad as you needed him.

“missed these fucking tits,” he said as he grabs your chest, squeezing them hard. you kept your pace on his cock, tugging upward, circling your hand around him.

“missed your pretty face,” he leaned down and planted a kiss on your lips then another on your jawline.

“missed eating that sweet pussy,” he leaned down, out of reach for you to keep stroking him, and spit on your already too slick cunt while holding your legs up.

“missed fucking you stupid,” he lined himself up, spreading his precum and spit all over your folds. you hissed out, hips bucking to meet him, hoping to push him inside you already.

“missed hearing you when you cum,” he matched your impatience and pushed inside, met with no resistance, sheathing himself inside you without hesitation. you screamed, screamed so fucking loud the entire hotel probably heard you, not expecting him to fill you so fast.

“missed that sound, too,” he smiled, bottoming out, and you couldn’t respond. couldn’t do anything but breathe, the sheer length of him overwhelming, stealing your senses. he filled you so good, so right, you couldn’t form thoughts let alone words. primal instinct took over, your body moved before your brain could process.

“need you to stop squeezing me so i can move, baby,” he grunts out, eyebrows furrowing, “missed this tight pussy too much, all i could think about for weeks.”

“ho- holy fuck yunho, y’split me fucking open,” you choke out, trying to relax your muscles, trying to get your breathing even.

“what’s that you called me earlier? spine breaker?” he asked, and his demeanor was too cool, too casual. like being inside of you wasn’t affecting him nearly as much as it was affecting you. you couldn’t bring yourself to care as you nodded, the only response you could muster.

he chuckled, chuckled, while being balls deep inside you, “that’s a new one.”

that’s all he said before he started moving. with no warning, if you weren’t sure before that he split you fucking open, you were definitely sure now. you were a screaming mess underneath him as he rutted into you, long fingers hooked under your knees, pressing them toward your head, you only got louder.

“fucking h-hell, yunho,” you cried out, eyes lolling back again as he fucked into you at a harsh pace.

“so fucking wet,” his knuckles were turning white at his grip on your legs, pistoling himself at a rhythm only he could keep up with, easily rearranging your insides.

“you can take it,” he says before you can say a word, he can see your eyebrows furrowed, your moans muzzled down to small sounds of despair leaving your lips. he knows he’s being rough, he knows he’s fucking you harshly, but you’ve taken it before, so you can do it again.

“yun, i don- i can’t—”

“yes you can,” he encourages, but it doesn’t feel much like encouragement as he only picks up the pace.

he gives you a second to breathe when he pulls out, but he only flips you over, pulling you up by your hips so you’re on all fours. you hiccup, already reduced to jelly, you don’t know if your legs can withstand the force of his thrusts.

“slutty little cunt has taken me before, she’ll do it again,” his words are just as harsh as his thrusts as he slips back in, pushing your back down into the mattress with a large hand when it inevitably rises to meet his thrusts.

your face meets the pillow, turning to the side so you can at least breathe, tears wetting the mattress at his relentless abuse at your cunt. he reaches around your hips and brings a finger to your clit, rubbing quick circles, and god you don't even know what sounds are coming out of you at this point.

tears and screams are leaving you, but your hips are fucking back on him, meeting his thrusts, and he’s smiling. wide, teeth showing, he’s so prideful. he knew you could do it, take him, take whatever he’s giving you, because you’re a slut. his slut. he won’t let you out of his hands again.

“f-fuck ‘m close, fuck,” he can hear the sobs through your words, he only wishes he could see the tears that are now soaking the mattress, no doubt ruining your makeup.

he could feel it in himself too, he was far too close to be fucking you like this. as much as he needed release, he wasn’t ready to cum just yet. he wanted to see you.

he flipped you back over, slipping back inside you with ease, and your arms immediately hooked around his neck to pull him into a kiss.

it was sweet, almost soft, the way you were kissing him when the way he fucked you was almost dehumanizing. like you didn’t matter, your pleasure was up to you, yet you both knew that was far from the truth. his thrusts kept up as he kissed you slow, nasty, tongues moving in tandem with another. you were whimpering in his mouth and he could feel you tightening around him, he knew you were close.

“there you go baby, cum on this cock,” he broke the kiss, keeping your foreheads together, plowing into you with fervor.

“gonna,” tears still streamed down your face, back arching so your chests met, skin touching skin. he needed you to cum now, he could feel his continence slipping.

you finally tightened around him, really tightened around him, a high pitched, languid moan leaving your lips. he only repeated yes, yes as you shook against him, creaming around his cock. he finally let his release take him over, burying himself inside you, filling you up.

you could feel every drop, the warmth spreading through you like wildfire, there was no other feeling like it. it was comforting, being so full, being so heavy with this huge man resting his weight on top of you.

he finally rolls off, laying beside you, catching his breath just as you were.

“it’s kinda crazy that you came to my club tonight,” you take your hair out of it’s entanglement on top of your head, letting it fall free on the bed, “i really thought i’d never see you again.”

“i’d never let that happen,” he shook his head, eyes closed as he laid beside you, chest still heaving.

“what do you mean?” you turned to look at him, “you knew i worked there?”

“nah, i’m just lucky.”

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idrawweirdstuffnominors · 3 months ago

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Hello! I saw your girl dads Bill & Josh posts and I’m wondering if you can do one for Girl dad Jerry & Pete if you please 👉🏾👈🏾

(Absolutely!! I'm sticking true to pete

Pete and Jerry girl dad headcannons !

Pete DiNunzio girl dad headcannons-

1. Old-School Protective to the Point of Madness

Pete doesn’t believe in letting his daughter walk home alone. Ever. She’s 17? Doesn’t matter. “You think some creep’s gonna stop and ask your birth certificate before being a freak? I’ll pick you up.”

2. Calls Her Nicknames Like ‘Principessa,’ ‘Bambina,’ or ‘Dollface’

And says them with real warmth. It’s half mafia-movie, half genuine affection. But if anyone else calls her that? Suddenly Pete’s shouting and cracking his knuckles.

3. Slightly Sexist But Not Malicious

He’ll say things like “This is guy stuff” when working on the car—but if she shows interest? He’ll grumble, sigh, and then teach her everything while pretending it was his idea.

4. Thinks Every Boy is Garbage

“Boys are wolves, sweetheart. They’ll act sweet, then next thing you know they’re borrowing your Switch and ghosting you with some girl named Kaylie.” He gets offended when she says she likes someone. “Him?! He’s got a dumb haircut!”

5. Surprisingly Sentimental About ‘Tradition’

He wants her to know the family recipes, how to make a proper sauce, and the importance of sitting at the table. “Sunday dinner’s not a suggestion—it’s a rule, capisce?”

6. Yells A Lot, But It’s Never Serious

He raises his voice over everything. Lost the remote? Shouts. Someone looked at her funny? Shouts. She’s having a rough day? Shouts at whoever caused it—but never at her in anger. If he does, he apologizes through actions, like her favorite ice cream or fixing something she didn’t even ask about.

7. Obsessed with Making Her ‘Tough Enough’

He teaches her to throw a punch “just in case” and insists she keeps pepper spray in her bag. “I’m not raising some pushover. You hit first, talk later—unless it’s a teacher. Then call me and I’ll hit them.”

8. Doesn’t Know How to Express Emotion—So He Cooks

If she’s upset, he won’t say much. But the kitchen will be full of garlic knots and pasta within 30 minutes. “I’m not good at the feelings crap, alright? Just eat.”

9. Thinks the School System is a Scam

He’s supportive, but suspicious. “SATs? Total scam. Just make sure you’re smart enough not to get screwed by a car lease or some finance guy named Todd.”

10. Would Drop Everything For Her, No Matter What

He acts all gruff, but if she calls and says, “Dad, can you come get me?”—he’s already halfway out the door, jacket half-on, yelling into his phone: “Who do I gotta yell at?!”

“The Incident”

It happened at CVS.

Pete had taken his daughter out to grab chips and Saw II—totally normal dad-daughter outing—when she froze in the aisle with a weird look on her face. Then she muttered something like, “We need to go home,” and walked off holding her hoodie around her waist like she’d been shot.

Pete followed, confused and already bracing to fight whoever made her upset.

Pete:

“What happened? You get sick? Someone give you a dirty look? You need me to yell at a manager?”

She kept walking. Face red.

Daughter:

“I need… stuff.”

Pete:

“…Stuff?”

Daughter: (mumbling fast)

“Girl stuff.”

Pete blinked. His brain short-circuited. Then—

Pete:

“Oh. OH. Jesus, Mary, and all the saints.”

He whipped around like someone had pointed a gun at him, nearly knocking over a display of Tic Tacs. A nearby grandma raised an eyebrow. Pete glared at her like she was to blame.

---

Back at home, Pete paced the kitchen like a soldier trying to defuse a bomb.

He'd dropped a Walgreens bag on the table—filled with the wrong kind of pads, some Midol he wasn’t sure was right, and, for some reason, a mini stuffed bear holding a heart that said "Feel Better."

She sat at the table, mildly horrified.

Pete:

“Look, I’m not good at this. When I was your age, my ma just yelled at me to do the laundry and left a whole bunch of stuff in the bathroom like it was some sacred rite.”

Daughter: (snorting)

“Dad, you didn’t get a period.”

Pete:

“Not the point! The point is, this is... nature. Biology. A monthly hit job from your uterus. And I wanna be clear, I ain’t squeamish, okay? I saw your cousin Dominic break his pinky playing stickball and I fixed it with a spoon and duct tape. But blood? That just shows up?! Randomly?! And it’s fine??”

Daughter:

“Yes. It’s fine.”

Pete: (waving his hands like a madman)

“I mean Jesus Christ, you’re just walking around with this time bomb in your body like it’s no big deal?! You’re twelve!”

Daughter:

“I’m thirteen.”

Pete:

“Oh that makes it better!”

He paused, breathing heavy. Then glanced at her. She was fighting a smile.

He ran a hand down his face, sighed, and finally sat across from her.

Pete (quieter):

“…I just wanna help. I don’t know how, but if you need anything—anything at all—I’m here. You wanna cry and throw something? I’ll buy you a pillow to scream into. You want ice cream? I’ll buy you the good kind, not that no-name crap.”

She nodded.

Daughter:

“Maybe just… the right kind of pads next time?”

Pete:

“You got it, Principessa. I’ll go in there like it’s a freakin’ mission from God. I’ll get wings, no wings, maxi, ultra, whatever the hell—I’m learning the code.”

He stood up, grabbed his keys, and headed for the door again.

Pete:

“And if your stomach hurts, you get the heating pad with the duck on it. That thing’s magic. Don’t ask me why.”

Daughter: (grinning now)

“Thanks, Dad.”

Pete: (gruff)

“Yeah yeah. Don’t get sentimental on me. I’m already losing hair.”

JERRY STOKES AS A GIRL DAD – HEADCANONS

The Sensible One:

Jerry reads all the parenting books. He doesn’t just wing it—he checks forums, medical sites, and probably even signs up for the baby tracker app. He may not talk about his feelings, but he shows love through quiet preparation.

Subtle Encouragement:

He’s not loud with praise, but when his daughter tries something new—drawing, coding, learning guitar—he gives the soft “That’s actually really good,” and keeps her art on the fridge for way too long. Her old crayon Pikachu is laminated.

The Period Talk? Done Over Text.

He panics too much to do it in person. She gets a calm, slightly clinical message that says:

> "Hey. You might need some products in the bathroom. Everything's labeled. You can always text me if you need more. Also I got chocolate."

And then he disappears from the house for 45 minutes to let her breathe.

Board Game Nights are Sacred.

No phones, no excuses. Jerry insists on family game night—sometimes D&D-style campaigns with just the two of them, where he lets her be chaotic and overpowered. He plays the dungeon master like a pro, even if she steamrolls his traps.

Teaches Her How to Build a PC.

Not because she asked, but because he wants her to know. “One day, your laptop’s gonna die mid-exam. This will save you.”

Protective But Non-Threatening.

If she dates someone, Jerry doesn’t threaten them with a shovel like Pete might. He just asks weirdly specific, nerdy questions until the kid gets nervous and leaves. “What’s your opinion on 'The Thing' vs. 'The Fly' remakes?”

If they answer wrong: "Huh. Interesting." (Meaning: "You're done.")

Worried Sick but Pretends He’s Not.

When she’s sick, he hovers silently, leaving water and soup at the door. If she says “I’m fine,” he nods—but 30 minutes later, she gets a thermometer, lozenges, and Vicks on her nightstand.

Matching Fandom Shirts.

He never forces his interests, but if she likes something he does (like Doctor Who or Star Trek), he gets so excited—buys them matching shirts or mugs. Pretends it’s no big deal, but his smile gives him away.

Teaches Her to Stand Up for Herself.

He might be soft-spoken, but he doesn’t want her walked all over. He teaches her to calmly, effectively shut people down. “You don’t need to yell. Just be smarter than them. Trust me, it ruins their day.”

Loves Her Fiercely, Quietly.

He may not be the most expressive, but his love is steady. Her favorite snack is always stocked. Her weird niche interests are researched. He’s the dad who stays up fixing her cosplay, or making sure the Wi-Fi is perfect for her big presentation.

Ten Going on Trouble

Jerry’s Saturday plan had been simple: coffee, fix the loose shelf, and maybe rewatch The Wrath of Khan for the fiftieth time.

Then his daughter came stomping down the stairs with all the rage and devastation only a ten-year-old girl could contain.

Daughter:

“I hate Mia. I hate everything. And my bangs look stupid.”

She collapsed dramatically on the couch, face buried in her pillow. Jerry blinked from behind his mug.

Jerry:

“…Okay. That’s… a lot. Do you want a snack, or—”

Daughter:

“NO.”

Pause.

Jerry:

“…Okay.”

He set his mug down. Sat on the edge of the couch like it might collapse under the weight of his discomfort.

He’d fought trolls in MMORPGs. He’d debated Star Trek continuity on Usenet forums.

But this?

This was terrifying.

Jerry:

“Alright. What happened?”

She sniffled, pulling her face out just enough to breathe.

Daughter:

“Mia said I was bossy. And that I always act like I know everything. And then I tripped in front of everyone during gym. And my hair is dumb. And I just wanna go live in the woods and be a cryptid.”

Jerry blinked.

Jerry:

“…You know, being a cryptid doesn’t come with indoor plumbing.”

Daughter: (snorting despite herself)

“Maybe I deserve to stink.”

Jerry:

“No one deserves to stink. That’s a universal truth.”

He got up and came back with a granola bar.

She didn’t say thank you, but she opened it and took a bite.

Jerry:

“You’re not bossy. You’re assertive. Confident. Big difference.”

Daughter:

“Mia said I talk too much.”

Jerry:

“Well, if that’s true, it’s genetic. Sorry. You come from a long line of over-explainers.”

She gave him a look.

Jerry:

“I once gave a girl a twenty-minute lecture on the plot holes in Phantom Menace. She still kissed me after, though.”

Daughter:

“Ew.”

Jerry:

“Exactly. But the point is—you’re allowed to be smart. You’re allowed to have opinions. Don’t shrink yourself because some kid can’t handle it.”

There was a pause. She fiddled with the wrapper.

Daughter:

“…You think my bangs look okay?”

Jerry looked at her. Truly looked.

They were uneven. She’d clearly taken scissors to them herself. One side was higher than the other and flared out like a confused anime character.

Jerry:

“They’re… avant-garde.”

Daughter: (groaning)

“So they’re bad.”

Jerry: (gently)

“They’re bold. But we can fix them. If you want.”

Daughter:

“…Yeah. Okay.”

She slid off the couch and held out her hand. Jerry took it like it was the most serious mission in the world.

Jerry:

“To the bathroom, Commander.”

Daughter:

“I should’ve just gone full cryptid.”

Jerry:

“Maybe next time. You’re still young.”

#eltingville epilogue #the eltingville club #epilogue jerry #epilogue pete #pete dinunzio #jerry stokes #welcome to eltingville #eltingville writing #headcanon

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insomniac-needs-a-fucking-nap · 11 months ago

Text

This has-been consuming me for over a day so I'm foisting it upon you. Suffer as I do.

Anyway the au idea!

Tim is stuck in a life loop.

What is a life loop? What it says on the tin! Ok better explination: it's basically a time loop but the end point of the loop is finicky which means everytime the looper dies they returns to the age they start(think baby or little little kid age).

Back to the au idea-

Tim is stuck in a life loop due to one reason or another Gotham taking pitty or some cursed relic his parents brought home whatever. Bottom line Tim is stuck in a life loop, and he resets to 6-8 (basically, sometime before he started stalking the batfa, which fannon puts at like 9, I think?)

Anyway some changes that happen in this au!

1) while Tim is still smart he's not as genius as fannon and maybe canon puts him as. Instead his smarts all come from having lived the same timeline like 80 different times.

2) he mostly doesn't abuse this power (sometimes he will memorize the stock prices of lexcorp and then steal it from lex and gifts it to kon in a "Please date me" gesture. It only works some of the time.... look after so long he forgets if he's made a bond with kon this "run" so sometimes kon just gets lexcorp gift packaged to him from a stranger. Now if he still gives the stranger a chance and end up actually dating him....that's not your buisness.)

Anyway sometimes he joins the batfam, sometimes he doesn't, sometimes he forgets to and hacks into the system then forgets he's not a part of them yet so the fam just has to deal with this random vigilante that they can't get off their comms, or out of their system...

When Tim sounds like a sarcastic cynical old man it's because he basically is. By "run" like 40 he's also pretty sure he's older than Ra's. Still calls him a geriatric fuck but hey who really blames him.

He's still a disaster bby no matter how many runs he goes through. Constantly forgets the "life changing" events... aka jason's petty Titans Tower attack, Bruce's timeline adventures, his parents' deaths, Damian's existence like 90% of the time, etc. So he does still get blindsighted sometimes

It's also super important to me in this that no one else is in a life loop. Yes Constantine, or raven, or Dr fate could all get him out of it but mehhhhh it's fine, he wants to die if old age at least once before he even starts contemplating that. Also whenever the batfam discovers his a "timetraveler" or stuck in a time loop, to avoid the Conversation™️ He just offs himself and starts a new run full on fuck that shit I'm out style

@brucewaynehater101 , here's that au!

#dc #tim drake

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obsessedhoneycomb · 2 months ago

Text

Mind The Gap - Keeping it private II

Scared and selfish

Toto Wolff x fem!reader

-> masterlist

Summary: When the guy you love somehow get scared by the heaviness of his feelings towards you, it can end in two ways. He will come back or you will never see him again…

Warnings: sadness, heartbreak, ghosting, mention of George (happy ending:))

Word count: 0.7k

A/N: Before we get to another pregnancy part of our Wolff couple, let’s dive in another complication of the start of the relationship. I’m currently going through the similar thing apart from the fact that my story is not finished yet, I’m going slowly crazy and I hope for a happy ending. But I’m old enough to know how life can be shitty so I’m trying to keep at least a bit of my sanity to go on (even though I’m crying to my pillow for the three days now). Enjoy it. :)

———

No messages for three days. You felt something was off when he said goodbye to you when he dropped you off at your home after your last date.

You saw it in his eyes. Vulnerability. Love. Fear.

Thinking it was just how captivated he was by you. No. Clearly not.

Laying in your bed as you did for the last few days you analysed every possible word you said, you texted and every kiss and action you did.

You didn’t know what you did wrong. But that was it. You did nothing wrong. It was all about him. But it hurt like hell. Being in the void of emptiness, that longing in your heart painful and the reel of your mind restless. Feeling frustrated, you shed a lot of tears into your silky pillows, you still held onto the hope that he will call you, that he will appear at your doorstep with a bouquet of flowers with those I love you words.

You felt betrayed, your mind probing into the thought of Toto being the smart one, the adult one.

Anger, sadness and denial.

All at once.

Were you not through enough? That shitshow with George. Sneaking around with Toto.

Heart breaking at the mere thought of losing him. You told him back then on that yacht, that you can’t handle another heartbreak. He knew it and still. He was acting like this.

Messaging him did nothing. Calls went straight to the voicemail.

Why bother? He’s clearly off on another of his women.

You were going insane.

Taking a few days off from work you got to your parents house to not be completely alone and catch up to your friends.

Feeling a lot better you still couldn’t shake Wolff from your mind.

Sitting at the restaurant with your friends, you laughed and it felt like old times. Everybody asked you about George, how you went through the breakup with him. You wanted to tell them about Toto, how you finally met “the one”.

Taking uber to the house of your parents, you were so stuck up in your mind that you didn’t notice the black sleek Mercedes. Walking through the threshold of the terrace of your parents house, you saw what you couldn’t even imagine.

Your dad was laughing with… Toto.

Blinking twice you just stood there frozen to the ground. Your dad noticed you first. “Hey, darling, you didn’t tell me that you’re dating a Mercedes’ boss.”

“I-“ you wanted to speak but Toto smiled a little, his eyes full of guilt.

“It’s my fault. I wanted to be a secret. But now I’m here to change it.” He stood up from the sofa, grabbing the bouquet of your favourite flowers and slowly walked towards you. You couldn’t believe it, breath stopping in your chest, eyes watering with tears.

“Toto-“

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry I put you in this situation. I was scared, and I needed to think about how I’m good for you, to not hurt you but I managed to hurt you in the process of my selfishness. I’m truly sorry. Can you forgive me, please? I love you. I can’t be without you. You’re my world. My universe.”

His confession made you cry. Every suppressed emotion left your system, collapsing into his arms, and he held you tightly, listening to your heart wrenching sobs.

“I nearly went crazy. You really angered me. Hurt me. I thought you just left me for another woman.” You managed to choke out into his shirt.

Toto felt bad, he really fucked it up. “I’m sorry… I didn’t intend to hurt you. I could never go to another woman. Because you’re the one I want to be with. The one I feel alive with. I won’t ever leave your side again. I won’t ever leave you alone.”

Looking up into his eyes you saw it all. Guilt, hurt, pain, love.

Cupping his cheeks, you cracked a little smile through your tears. “I fucking love you Torger Christian Wolff. Don’t you ever leave me again. Because if so, I’m gonna slit every single tire on every single one of your cars.”

Toto laughed softly. “Of course. I’m counting on it.”

———

Please don’t use my writings without permission! Pictures found on Pinterest.

Tags: @mimisweetz

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flowery-mess · 6 months ago

Text

uh oh

Pairing: frat boy Noah x female reader

reader has a name (Ella Thompson, but the story is written in 'your' POV)

Warnings: 18+ MDNI! / alcohol / protected sex / friends with benefits / let me know if anything else should be taged!

Words: 3,7k

frat boy Noah masterlist

Author's note: I fell in love with frat boy Noah while writing this, so feel free to elaborate or send thots, I'll maybe make this a 'thing', maybe series? What do you think?

Inspired by this song:

feel your eyes watchin' me, so I'm movin' on him just so you can see, told you I was gonna get you right back, oh, you don't really like that? ✨

You and Noah met at sociology class you both had to attend in junior year at college. Your majors not similar at all, his being economics and finance and your neuropsychology. You never had the same classes until now, so he was just another one of pretty school boys for you. You never paid much attention to him as you were actually interested in topics your professor talked about in classes, but you couldn’t say the same about Noah. You caught his eye the first week of when he entered the big study room and you were the first one there, working on your neurology project with headphones on. When you noticed movement around you and lifted your head, Noah only gave you a small nod and sat few rows behind you. That was your first encounter.

Your second encounter was when you were at the opening party at a frat house. You liked going out, having fun time and drinks with your friends. You usually let them pick the place or party you’re going to be attending, so you didn’t have a clue where you’d end up that night. You had pre drinks at your shared dorm with your two best friends, picking outfits and doing each other’s makeup. You ended up wearing black leather skirt that ended just above your knees, basic black top and matching leather jacket over your shoulders. That was bold outfit for you, so you decided for some natural makeup look with red lips. You felt good that night, the alcohol in your system helping your confidence.

When you entered the frat house the party was already on, music on full volume and people all over the place. You found some of your classmates and had shots with them, then settled on the big red couch in the living room to play some stupid game that involved alcohol.

After while your friends were too occupied either with kissing boys or chugging vodka down their throats, so you went to find kitchen to have some water for a change.

“Wouldn’t think of you as a party girl.” you heard deep male voice behind you, but didn’t know if he was talking to you. When you looked around and saw only few younger boys chatting in the corner about god knows what, you turned around to see the pretty tatted boy looking at you.

“Why not?” you asked.

“You look like someone who spends their Friday night studying at home. You always have book in front of you at school.” Noah answered your question with a teasing smile.

“Well, that’s so I can have fun on a Friday night instead of reading books.” you crossed your arms over your chest, not knowing where this small talk will get you.

“Smart and funny, I like that.” he said, taking small steps towards you.

“So, you’re part of the fraternity then?”

“Why would you think that?”

“You look like someone who spends their Friday night partying and having one night stands.” you shot back.

“You’re almost right. I am in this fraternity, I like partying on Friday nights,” he slowly walked in your direction, making you walk backwards until your back hit the counter and he caged you in with his arms on your sides, “but I don’t do one night stands.”

You felt his breath on your cheek, as he leaned closer to your face.

“Oh, sorry for making assumptions then.” you said just a bit louder than whisper.

You didn’t do one night stands either, but you blamed alcohol that night for ending with Noah between your legs, his tongue deep inside your pussy and your fingers in his dark hair. You had sex with him in a room you later found out wasn’t even his, he lived in an apartment 10 minutes away from the campus. The sex was great and you actually enjoyed talking with him after he got you finish for the second time that night.

Since then you said “Hi” to each other at every sociology class and at every party you both were. Leaving those parties together also became regular thing that grew into friends with benefits type of thing. You agreed on casual sex, without dates and feelings. You sometimes ordered food or watched movie, but never in a romantic way. And you liked it that way.

Until Noah started flirting with other girls at parties. You weren’t jealous, because it was always you who was screaming his name later, but you didn’t like the uneasy feeling in your tummy everytime you saw a girl touch his bicep or him to lean down to the girls ear so she could hear what he was saying.

You liked what you two had and didn’t want to lose it. So you talked to him about it one night, which lead to an argument instead of sex and orgasms. He told you that it’s just harmless flirting and if you’re jealous that means you caught feelings for him and that he doesn’t want that. You tried to tell him it’s not like that, that you just don’t want to continue this thing between you if he wants to have sex with other girls and that you would understand if he would want to end it, but he didn’t listen. You didn’t talk to each other for three weeks and he made sure you saw every single one of his flirt attempts at parties.

So you decided to do the same tonight. You went for short black dress with deep V neck that made your boobs look amazing. The dress probably made the trick as you found yourself talking with a guy from the same fraternity Noah was part of. You were leaning against the wall in their living room as he hovered over you. You didn’t pay much attention to what he was saying, you were watching Noah with red haired girl at the couch. When your eyes met you saw something in Noah’s eyes that you haven’t seen there before. Jealousy? Anger? His eyes were dark and he was staring at you.

The boy who’s name you forgot like ten seconds after he told you, started touching your hips and leaning towards you too much for you liking, so you excused yourself and went for the bathroom.

“What the hell was that?” you heard Noah’s voice when you opened the bathroom door and he was leaning against the wall opposite you.

“Excuse me?” you raised your eyebrow at him.

“What kind of show was that supposed to be?” he was angry, you could hear it in his voice.

“A show? You mean the same show you’ve been doing the past three weeks? It’s not so nice from the other side, is it?”

He didn’t want to hear another word, so he pushed you back into the tiny bathroom.

I’m yours again when you walk away, you know if you leave, I ain't gonna stay, when I'm doin' good, you get me off track, and I guess I kinda like that. ✨

“Come to my place with me?” Noah said between kisses and lifted you so you sat next to the sink.

He was jealous, but wouldn’t admit it. But you felt it in the way he was kissing you, his tongue fighting for dominance and his hands in your hair, pulling at them every once in a while.

“Say you’re sorry Noah.” you said breathlessly, leaning back from him until your back touched the cold mirror behind you.

“Sorry for what?” he had your lipstick all over his lips and chin, he looked hot like that, marked.

“Noah.” you knew he knew what you were asking from him, but he was too proud to say it.

“Come to my place with me and let me show you how sorry I am?” he asked you, already kneeling in front of you. He knew what your weakness is, so how could you say no to him when he was already pulling your panties to the side.

you make me really, really good at makin' bad decisions, all my friends know where to look every time I go missin', seven texts and two missed calls, know I can't ignore 'em all, said that I'm gonna be sleepin' at mine, i lied. ✨

You knew you should have said no, but you missed him. You missed his touch, his hands all over your body, his mouth on your skin and how good he could make you feel.

After your argument three weeks ago, your friends told you that you should stop seeing him, that what he started doing wasn’t acceptable and that you should know your worth, but he was just so addictive. So when your friends saw you two leave, you felt ashamed and tried to avoid their stare. You knew that you’ll find missed calls and unread messages on your phone in the morning, but you didn’t care at that moment. You just wanted, no, needed to feel Noah’s skin on yours again. You craved him, the satisfaction he was able to give you.

uh oh, I couldn't help myself, i'm almost at your house again, again, uh oh, I'm one foot in the door, my clothes are on your floor again, again. i get a little drunk and it's all I want, tomorrow I'll be sick, but tonight I'm numb, uh oh, now we can just pretend, we won't do it again, again, again. ✨

The drive to Noah’s place was short, the taxi driver’s music loud enough for him not to hear all the dirty things Noah whispered in your ear.

“I hated Trevor’s hands on your body, only I can touch you.”

“I miss your mouth on my dick, you’re so good.”

“I’m gonna make you scream my name baby.”

He was selfish. He hated another man’s hands on you, yet he could touched dozen of other women. He knew he had you wrapped around his finger, but you just couldn’t help yourself. You wanted to be strong enough to not get in the taxi with him and go back to Trevor who actually looked interested in you and maybe would take you out on a proper date.

Instead you left with Noah, knowing how it’s gonna go. You’re gonna have a great sex, fall asleep in his arms, sneak out in the morning and then feel like shit. You’re gonna listen to your friends about how you’re just hurting yourself and wasting time with him, them making you promise it was the last time, only to break that promise at the next party.

roll your eyes like you do, shoulda known it's always the same with you, tryin' not to feel our connection, but, oh my god, it's kinda temptin' ✨

In the elevator you walked Noah back until his body hit the wall and went for his neck. Leaving lipstick all over his skin, licking and biting his sensitive spots. His eyes rolled to the back of his head before he closed them fully and left his mouth hanging open. Silent moans leaving his pink lips, until the elevator stopped at his floor.

you said, "Can we leave now?", i don't think we should, through the back door, that won't end good, how 'bout my place? shit, you know I would, then I'll follow you out, hope nobody looks. ✨

“Do you want a drink?” Noah asked you, really hoping your answer would be no so he could take you straight to his bed.

“Yes, wine is fine.” you said as you started taking off your coat, taking in the sight of familiar apartment you haven’t seen in weeks.

Noah took out two glasses and filled them with white wine, then handed one to you. You sipped on your drinks in quiet, you sitting at Noah’s kitchen counter and him standing next to the oven.

“Did you have sex with anyone in the last few weeks?” you managed to build the courage to ask him the question that was in the back of your mind for weeks.

“What?” he looked genuinely confused.

“You heard me.”

“No, the last time I had sex was with you.”

“Then why did you start flirting with all those girls in front of me, Noah?”

“It’s just for fun, you were the one I took home in the end.”

“It wasn’t fun for me.”

“That’s why you did the same with Trevor tonight?”

“And you didn’t like it, or did you?”

“No.”

“We said no to sleeping with other people, I just felt like you wanted to and you flirting with all those girls made me feel uncomfortable. That’s all.”

“Okay, I’m sorry. I won’t do it again if we go back to our thing.” his apology seemed genuine, so you nodded your head.

“Okay, but you can tell me if you want to stop and date someone, I’ll be fine with that.” you finished your wine at the same time Noah did. He took the glass from your hand and put them both in the sink. When he returned, he came much closer to you and put his hands on your thighs.

“I don’t want to date anyone, I told you that.” he rubbed his nose along your jaw, then he gently kissed your neck and you tilted your head back to give him more access.

He made sure to suck on your sensitive spots, he desperately needed to hear your moans.

“Lay down.” he helped you lay down on the cold counter and then continued kissing you more. He went for your chest, kissing the top of your breaths that were close to spilling over the edge of your lacy bra.

He palmed your nipples through the fabric of your dress, smirking at the sound that came from your mouth.

Noah rolled your dress up to your waist and kissed your tummy until he reached the lacy panties you wore, matching your bra.

“Poor Trevor, bet he would love to see those too.” Noah teased you.

“Shut up Noah.” you lifted your hips to give him sign he should talk less and touch you more.

He took the hint and gladly slid the panties down your legs.

“Fuck I missed you.” he sighed at the view in front of him. You were laying down with legs spread open just for him. Your cheeks were pink and your chest was going up and down from the excitement.

Noah kneeled down so he’d face your core and put your legs over his shoulders so he could spread you open as much as he needed to.

He took his time, licking you from you entrance to your clit, tasting you like a starved man. His tongue explored you like it was for the first time, slowly and gently moving up and down.

“Oh Noah.” you let out a breathy moan only he could hear. He felt himself grow tighter in his pants, but he wanted to give you an apology before he’d fuck you senselessly.

He sucked on your clit, teasing your pussy with his long fingers. He spread you open with them and went to slowly fuck you with his tongue. His other hand made its way to your clit, collecting your wetness so he could gently rub small circles where you wanted it the most.

“Noah, I’m-“ you didn’t get to finish your sentence when you felt the start of your orgasm in your lower tummy. Noah had to put more pressure on your hips to hold you down, but continued with his moves until he felt your legs shake and your breath stop for a second. You squeezed his head with your thighs and let out the sexiest sounds out of your mouth.

After he was sure he licked you clean, he took you in his arms and started walking in the direction of his bedroom.

He laid you down in his bed and connected your lips. You could taste yourself on his lips, that alone made you want him more.

You helped him out of his clothes until he was only in his underwear and you pushed him down so he was laying under you. You straddled his lap, enjoying the view for a moment. He was looking at you with eyes full of lust, his hair messily laying around his head. He was waiting for you next move, letting you take control for now.

You took your dress and bra off at the same time and Noah immediately went to touch your boobs. He squeezed them and started playing with your nipples. Your head fell back and your hips moved involuntary.

The wetness from your core already making wet spot on Noah’s underwear, but both of you couldn’t care less.

You shifted your weight to one of your legs and shimmied Noah’s underwear down his legs. His dick fell back against his stomach, hard and swollen, waiting for you to take him.

You wrapped your fingers around his length and he gripped your hips as an reaction. You stroked him few times, collecting the pre cum and enjoyed the state Noah was in. He had his eyes closed in a bliss, gripping your hips like his life depended on it.

“Fuck me, please.” he groaned, knowing he wouldn’t last long if you’d keep stroking him.

You reached into his drawer and took a condom out. You took your time putting it on, teasing Noah along the way.

You took Noah’s dick in your hand and collected your wetness with it, then gently slid down his whole length.

You both made unnatural sounds and you sat still for a moment, enjoying the fullness and stretch he was giving you.

When you started moving your hips, Noah reached for your right hand and intertwined your fingers, giving you his hand for balance. Your eyes were closed and mouth open, as you were riding his dick in slow motions.

“That’s it, god yes!” Noah encouraged you to keep going with his words, squeezing your fingers when it felt particularly good. “Touch yourself baby.” he told you, and you did as you were told.

You didn’t pay much attention to the word baby, as it was something he went for regularly. Instead you paid attention to your fingers touching your clit, feeling another orgasm closer and closer.

Noah felt you squeeze him and he knew you were close, he wanted you to have one more orgasm before he finished, so he encouraged you with his words. “Come on, cum on my dick. That’s it, you can let go.” as if it was the last thing you needed for actually letting go, the orgasm took over you and you fell to Noah’s chest.

He hold you, whispering gentle things in your ear as you tried to even your breath.

When he knew you were okay to continue, he started kissing your neck and gently lifted you from him and you felt him slide out of you, suddenly feeling empty. He switched your positions, you were now laying under him, ready for more.

“You good?” he asked you, wanting some kind of permission to continue.

“Mhm.” was all you could get out before attacking his lips with yours, pulling him down by his neck.

He lined himself at your entrance and slowly slid in. His head fell in the crook of your neck and you enjoyed feeling him inside you again.

His movements were slow at first, his hand slid around you throat and he put a bit of pressure on it, just like you liked it.

“You feel so good around my dick, fuck!” Noah managed to say between taking deep breaths. You felt so good and so loved at the moment. You knew there were no feelings, but the way Noah knew your body and where to touch you or what to say, that made you feel loved.

He went to kiss you, but instead you both left your mouth open and moaned into each other’s open lips as both of your orgasm started to build inside your bodies.

Noah’s rhythm became irregular and you felt his hand on your clit.

“Noah, fuck!” you breathed out when you felt the orgasm build inside you for the third time, more intensive than before.

You felt the Noah’s dick twitch inside you and you knew he was cuming, he grunted next to your ear in bliss.

Hearing him reach his high with his hand still on your clit pushed you over the edge and you came seconds after him.

He collapsed on top of you, staying inside you until his dick softened.

He moved you both so he was laying on his back and were laying on his chest, both of you still catching your breaths before you went to clean yourselves.

After you took shower and changed into Noah’s t-shirt, you laid in his bed waiting for him to finish washing up.

You had toothbrush, make up remover and underwear at his place. He didn’t mind, he also didn’t mind you staying the night and then leaving his place before he woke up.

You enjoyed falling asleep next to him, sometimes you would talk until 2AM about anything, sometimes you would watch movie and sometimes you would fall asleep straight away.

You watched him dry off his body with white towel through his mirror, wondering if you would go back to hooking up every weekend after tonight or if something is going to change. You knew your friends will try to talk some sense into you tomorrow, but for now you just wanted to pretend like there is no tomorrow.

✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨

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This story is a work of fiction, with the plot and characters entirely made up. The appearance and name of the main male character are inspired by Noah Sebastian Davis, but the storyline bears no connection to the real person. Please do not steal or repost this work on other platforms without permission.

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