#no idea why i didn’t post it before

[weirdglassthing]

Oh yeah another ouaw doodle dump 🗣️🗣️

Ft some gender swapped Gideon and kremys (kremy is wearing a wig I swear im not stupid Ik she wouldn’t be able to grow hair 🙏🙏)

Also gideons shirt in the first one was one of my friends ideas

[satoblue]

the amount of lies ppl spread on my name is insaneee i wonder what’s next lowkey like damn i’m invested too i didn’t know i did that either

[millipup-posting]

Group festering in anguish starts at 6

tthis is for my au .this is for my au with the dog of self loathing and despair . Warning this is for my au.

I hate tgis animal die die die die die

High quality version of the first pic at the top is posted on main

my creature uses it/its 🙏🙏🙏

[acourtofquestions]

Overhead, the stars shone clear and bright, and though Mala had only once appeared to him at dawn, on the foothills across this very city, though she might be little more than a strange, mighty being from another world, he offered up a prayer anyway.

Then, he had begged Mala to protect Aelin from Maeve when they entered Doranelle, to give her strength and guidance, and to let her walk out alive. Then, he had begged Mala to let him remain with Aelin, the woman he loved. The goddess had been little more than a sunbeam in the rising dawn, and yet he had felt her smile at him.

Tonight, with only the cold fire of the stars for company, he begged her once more.

A curl of wind sent his prayer drifting to those stars, to the waxing moon silvering the camp, the river, the mountains.

He had killed his way across the world; he had gone to war and back more times than he cared to remember. And despite it all, despite the rage and despair and ice he'd wrapped around his heart, he'd still found Aelin. Every horizon he'd gazed toward, unable and unwilling to rest during those centuries, every mountain and ocean he'd seen and wondered what lay beyond... It had been her. It had been Aelin, the silent call of the mating bond driving him, even when he could not feel it.

They'd walked this dark path together back to the light. He would not let the road end here.

[king-lena]

ew i hate looking back on any social media and seeing my old cringe posts (especially on tiktok) like help!!!! that isn’t me anymore don’t look please!!!! 😅 i can barely handle my current cringe posts don’t make me revisit the past please!!!! i am working so hard to constantly keep growing and learning and changing my mindset and becoming a better me every day and i am no longer that version of myself and i do not know her like that anymore. but dang like her reminants are still out there lingering and i do not like it one bit… 😔

[solarpunkani]

Homies I was rereading my solarpunk zombie apocalypse story to see if I’d want to try continuing it for reaping week and

Homies I kinda cooked

Maybe I’ll do a writing stream Monday

[falcosam]

just jumping on my own writing rambles here after seeing that post floating around about ‘writing for yourself’ because i used to tell myself that too to convince myself it was okay that i was writing for a rarepair and getting 20 kudos (that’s being generous) when a longer fic had gotten at least 150+ (this was of course when the series had more attention on it)

my own reflections under cut unrelated to smbk lol read if u want i kinda wanted an outlet since that was my previous (long) hyperfixation

when you’re a rarepair author it gets tiring. you start something yes to make your own imagination come to life because there’s literally nobody else who would do it. if i wanted something back then id have to write it myself. i’d have to draw it myself. and that was fun and i was happy because in the span of like 8 months i had churned out 28 published fics. i was writing more than i ever had, i was drawing more than i ever had

that was fun until it wasn’t because i wasn’t gaining traction on it which, fair, it was a rarepair but it still sucked knowing that i worked so hard to ideate and create but i was just left burn out

when the series ended, i officially said i wouldn’t want anything to do with it anymore - mainly bc they did my fave dirty (when they shouldn’t have, given her supposed importance in the series)

someone i had looked up to, kept engaging with because they matched how i loved that character told me they actually read my stuff which truly surprised me

if i had known, if they had spoken to me directly, i would’ve stayed, probably. but all the people whom i thought i could connect with abt this rarepair just faded away and im a very jaded person who doesn’t really engage in fandom in the first place

if i try to connect with you it means i trust how you see this character because god knows mischaracterisation goes rampant, especially when it’s a female character. if i try to connect with you especially when there’s a language barrier that’s how much it means to me

it felt like a slap to the face to be told not to leave, to not stop creating when it never felt like they had supported me in the first place. i could not understand the sense of betrayal they felt tbh

anyway tldr leave that comment press the kudo button if you vibe with a work. talk to the author if you appreciate what they do. it’s depressing to love a work and realize nobody cared about it lol

[juniperhillpatient]

no idea if it’s a long Covid thing or just a #functional alcoholic thing or what but I stopped being able to taste liquor a long time ago & I also have a habit of mixing random drinks sometimes just two kinds of soda or juice or whatever other times there’s liquor involved sometimes a lot it just depends. & I leave these concoctions in unmarked cans & bottles all around & come back to them at random. which is fun.

[headknight-oh]

Just noticed that there hasn’t been much, if any, coverage on the mangione trial in like a month. Like since he plead not guilty, there hasn’t been any major coverage on the proceedings. I just tried to look up anything about the past month and I genuinely cannot find anything. Nothing about it they’re still in jury selection, nothing about any rulings, nothing about the defending attorney or even opinion pieces. Like I know why there’s not much coverage, but nothing at all? Like we got CONSTANT updates about the depp/heard case when it was happening, but now that it’s something about an important issue that would have been the case of the decade in times past, it’s radio silence.

It’s so incredibly disturbing that they’ve filtered it out of the media and that people don’t care enough to demand it be covered. People treated it like a trend and aesthetified it to the point that an actual act of resistance means nothing now.

Also there’s like no concrete evidence in this case. It’s all circumstantial. I feel that everyone forgot that, and because of it, the idea that “innocent until proven guilty” as a precedent is very much in the process of being undermined

Edit: Putting this here again because I keep getting people misinterpreting what I’m trying to say: You guys, I know there’s nothing new to report on. What I’m saying is that when something like this happens, everyone talks about it. Every talk show and opinion columnist and political analyst will talk give speculation and reaction and opinion on it. Like when columbine happened, every news outlet talked about it for months before the trial ever happened. It happened in 99 and the rulings didn’t come out til 01 or something. And even if they never directly mentioned columbine, they would talk about gun violence and bullying and how police weren’t trained for situations like that. They talked about the surrounding issues. Like yeah there’s nothing new that the media has access to rn, but no one is making opinion pieces about the judges conflict of interest, no talk show is having a 20 min segment about gun violence or the state of healthcare. Twenty years ago, it would have stayed in the news cycle at least passively until the case moved forward. But now it’s been phased out almost completely. And I know coverage will pick up when the trial starts. I know courts move slowly. I’m not trying to push conspiracy. I was simply making an observation that it was strange that there was almost no talk about it, that it’s been phased out of news cycles, and how there’s no widespread conversation about the issues surrounding the shooting.

Also, I only used depp/heard in the original because it was the most recent case I could think of. And because I was tired and thought this post would be seen by like 20 people max, so I didn’t bother wording it as precisely as I could have. Columbine and the OJ Simpson case are better examples to work off of.

I just wanted to clarify what I meant so I stop getting comments that misinterpret what I’m trying to say and people being rude about it

[always-a-slut-4-ghouls]

Contacting tech support about those mobile zombie survival games: what do you mean I can’t fuck the zombies?

[street-smarts00]

With All My Heart

Bucky Barnes x Fem!Reader

Summary: You never thought Bucky was the sentimental type, until you found something hidden under his bed.

WC: 3.3k

Tags/Warnings: super fluffy, established relationship, Post Thunderbolts*,Not Beta Read 

A/N: I’ve had this idea for weeks and finally did it. Fun fact, the Polaroids may or may not be inspired by real pictures I took of my best friend and her boyf. Also, yes I have been to the rest stop I mentioned. Sadly I live far away from them and I NEED to go back!

You felt like an idiot looking at your wrist and realizing your watch wasn’t there. 

“Shit,” you mumbled.

“What’s wrong?” Bucky asked you with concern. 

You shook your head, “It’s nothing, I forgot my watch.”

He paused, pondering while he put on his leather jacket. “I think you left it on my nightstand when you took it off last night,” he answered, pointing down the hall. “Do you want to go get it before we leave?” 

You hesitated, “You sure you don’t mind waiting?” 

Bucky shook his head and held out his hand to hold your jacket and purse for you. “Not at all.”

You smiled, handed him your things, and left a kiss on his cheek. “Thanks, be right back.” 

As you walked away the corners of his lips turned up into a soft smile. 

You hurried to Bucky’s room and upon entering a frustrated groan left you. There the nightstand was, with no watch. You searched the drawers in the nightstand and the top of his dresser, still no luck. 

After staring at the nightstand, you wondered if you really did leave it there but maybe it fell. You kneeled down next to the bed and turned on your phone flashlight. A quick scan finally revealed the missing watch. With a relieved sigh you reached for it, when something caught your eye. 

A box. 

A box with your name written on the side of it. 

Your own name was staring back at you as you grabbed the watch. With a careful hand you reached for the box and dragged it out from the bed. 

The box sat in your lap, unopened, unbothered. It was a dark brown cardboard shoe box from one of his pairs of boots. Your name was written in black marker on the side and next to it a tiny messy heart. 

Your gut is telling you not to open it. It might have been hidden for a reason. You have no right to be digging and snooping around Bucky’s things. Finding something he didn’t want found. 

But another part of you was desperate to know what was inside. That small but loud part of your brain that was screaming at you to open it. The voice kept echoing in your ears. Reminding you that your name was on it. 

Why did he have a box with your name on it?

Maybe it wasn’t supposed to be hidden. You kept things under your bed not because you wanted to hide them, but because of storage and safekeeping. Maybe this was like that. 

Maybe. 

God the anticipation was going to kill you. 

Maybe it was a present he put in there for your next anniversary, birthday, or some other reason. 

Well then you should really not open it. Don’t want to ruin any possible surprise he has for you. 

You really shouldn’t open it. You shouldn’t open it. Don’t open it. Don’t open it. Don’t open it. Don’t open it. Open it. Open it. Open it…

Your hands moved on their own. Your fingers peeled back the lid of the box and set it down on the floor next to you. 

You peered inside at the contents of the box with confused curiosity. At first glance it didn’t look like much. It definitely wasn’t a present. There were a bunch of random items, mostly paper ones. 

The first thing that caught your attention was the small plastic wristband. It was at the top of the pile. You picked it up and read the words on the side “Luna Park: Coney Island.” Realization dawned on you that it was Bucky’s wristband from your first date. When he asked you out, there was no specific place in mind yet. But when he told you an old story about him and Steve at Coney Island and you said you had never been there before, he knew where he wanted to take you. 

It was a perfect first date. The weather was clear and warm but not too hot to be uncomfortable, no doubt because of the cool ocean breeze. You went on rides, you played games. And of course Bucky spent 40 bucks to win you a blue stuffed penguin you fawned over and called cute. He was a man on a mission. And now that penguin sat on a chair in your bedroom. 

With a smile you placed the wristband back in the box and picked at the other things inside. 

Your heart swelled at the realization that most of the items were from your old dates with Bucky. There were tickets from your trips to the Metropolitan Museum of Art, Museum of Natural History and one from The New York Aquarium. There had to be at least 5 movie stubs and 3 dinner receipts from dates you went on with him. There was the playbill from the broadway show he took you to for your birthday a few months ago. He surprised you with orchestra seats. 

You dug around more and found a strip of photos from a photo booth you took with Bucky. His eyes shined as he told you about how common they were back in the 30s and how he used to always stop at them with his friends. When you both sat down he stared with wide eyes at the inflated price. 

“Ten dollars? This used to cost a quarter!” 

You giggled at his complaint, “You sound so old when you say stuff like that.” You reached for your purse to grab a ten when he stopped you with a hand on your arm and pulled out his wallet from his pocket. 

“I’m still not going to let you pay for it,” he returned with a sly grin. 

You smiled looking down at the strip of pictures in your hand. The top photo was simple, both you and Bucky smiling at the camera with his arm around you. It was sweet, peaceful. In the second photo you placed a hand under his chin and kissed his cheek. His eyes were closed with wrinkles around them from his smile. His cheeks were more rosy than in the last photo. In the third photo Bucky now had his hand on your neck as he kissed you. The fourth and final photo was of you looking at the camera, mid laugh, while Bucky had a hand on your face and pressed a kiss to your cheek. 

The machine gave you two copies of the pictures. Yours was pinned to a cork board in your room next to other photos. 

You moved on from the photo strip and continued digging through the memory box, throwing caution to the wind. 

As you flipped through the other items a shell fell from behind something, landing in the corner of the box. It was the seashell from when you walked and talked on the beach for what felt like hours because you were so engrossed in conversation with him. The water carried a small shell onto the shore. You picked it out from the water and stared at it in awe. You had asked Bucky to hold onto it because your clutch was full and your outfit didn’t have any pockets. Later that night you forgot about it. 

In fact, you forgot about it until now, weeks later. Your jaw dropped as you ran your fingertips over the ridges of the shell's surface, reminiscing your walk on the beach. His hand in yours and the

The next thing you found were the birthday cards you gave Bucky from his last two birthdays. One card was from a birthday before you started dating, and the other one was after. 

The two year old card was more basic, like you got it from the generic section of the birthday card aisle (because you did). You opened up the old card and read your own handwriting. 

Happy Birthday Bucky

I know you don’t like making a big deal out of your birthday but you still deserve a card :) 

You’re so important to this team and your effort doesn’t go unnoticed. We’re lucky to have you around. I hope you have a great day and that 109 treats you well. (Even though you’re technically not 109 haha) 

You closed it and set it back down in the box before grabbing the one you gave him on his most recent birthday. This one was less generic. You picked out one that had more design and personality. 

Happy Birthday my Love 

I am so grateful to have you by my side. You’re one of the best things to have ever happened to me. I hope you know you are so important and appreciated. I can’t imagine my life or this team without you. 

Happy 110th you old man ;)

I love you with all my heart

Hidden behind the birthday cards was a stack of post-it notes all stuck together. Some of them were old with barely any stickiness left and crinkled edges. Some were new and almost in pristine condition. But all of them were notes from you. You flipped through the stack of sticky notes and saw more of your own handwriting. 

Good morning <3

You make me smile :)

Meet me in the lounge later I have a surprise!

I know you stole my last Pepsi >:( prepare for war

I’m so proud of you 

Have a great day!

And at least 7 more that just say I love you 

Bucky must have saved every single note you left for him.

Your heart almost gave out but thankfully it lasted to see the last few items in the box. 

There were more photos. Two to be exact. Two Polaroids taken from Yelena's camera. 

One of the Polaroids was taken a few months ago. You knew it was taken because you posed for it. It was on your birthday. The team celebrated at the tower with you after the show Bucky surprised you with. You wanted to keep out of the public eye for the rest of your birthday. Spend the night with just friends. And your boyfriend of course. 

Yelena was a few drinks in, wasting her camera film throughout the night. She had a pile of photos on the coffee table that was getting thicker as time went on. Most of them included you. 

This one was of you and Bucky. Everyone was sitting on the couches playing a drinking game. You and Bob returned from the bar with new drinks. A Long Island iced tea for you and a regular iced tea for him. You plopped back down on the couch next to your boyfriend, giggling at whatever outlandish thing Alexei said. After you placed your drink down Bucky wrapped an arm around you and placed a gentle kiss to your cheek. 

“Awe! Wait, that was adorable, do that again!” Yelena exclaimed as she grabbed her camera. 

You rolled your eyes, with no real malice of course. “Yelena,” you laughed. 

“Come on, it’s sweet!” She turned the camera on and looked through the viewfinder. 

“Kiss!” Alexei shouted. 

“Pucker up Barnes!” Ava yelled from the other couch. 

The corners of Bucky’s lips turned up into a grin as he shook his head. A gasp left you as Bucky grabbed your hips and pulled you into his lap. He tightened his arm around you and placed a kiss on your cheek. Your face turned bright red as an airy giggle left your lungs. 

Yelena snapped the image in front of her. Forever frozen in time.

The memory of that night now sat in your hands as you stared down at it. There was a phantom feeling of his lips on your skin as you set the Polaroid back down in the box. 

You picked the other photo up, immediately recognizing when it was taken. Except, you don’t remember it being taken. 

This picture was taken a few short weeks before Bucky asked you out. You knew that because your hair was slightly shorter. It was more grown out now. 

The photo was of you and Bucky on the couch, taken from behind. Your back was to the camera, resting against the couch. Bucky was sitting next to you. Your attention was pulled away somewhere off camera. But Bucky, he looked right at you. 

The thing that really stuck with you was his eyes. His eyes were soft. The kind of soft that people didn't see often from him. His eyes are normally like stone. His stare, usually hard, like rock. It pierces into you. But this look on him was different. He looked at you like you were a work of art. Like he was trying to take in all of you with just his eyes. 

You've seen that look before many times. But didn’t notice it before you started dating. You didn’t realize just how head over heels he was in the weeks leading up to your first date. 

You cautiously placed the pictures back in the box, like they were delicate and fragile. 

Something else you didn’t remember was a napkin with little doodles on it. You recognized it as a napkin from a bar the team occasionally visited. But you can’t remember when you drew flowers and vines on this napkin. 

Bucky seemed to remember it. He kept it and cherished it in his memory box like it was a masterpiece you created and not some drunk sketch. 

Your heart rate slowly grew in speed as your eyes moved to a keychain at the bottom of the box. It was a small, yellow, metal keychain in the shape of Texas with a cartoon beaver on it. 

It was in the middle of the night after a short mission in Texas. You and Ava stopped at the largest rest stop you’d ever seen in your life. The rest stop had a beaver for its mascot and aisles of merch. But what made you buy the keychain for him was the name of the rest stop. Buc-ee’s. 

You almost didn’t buy it for him. This was long before you started dating and you weren’t sure how he would appreciate a random gag gift. 

“I found something for you in Texas.” 

He turned to you and hummed with curiosity. You dug the keychain from your jeans pocket and handed it to him. 

“We found this rest stop called Buc-ee’s and they have this little beaver as their mascot,” you explained, fidgeting with the loops in your jeans. “He’s literally your twin, you're both named Bucky,” you ended with a chuckle, trying to make this one sided conversation any less awkward. 

He continued to silently examine it, his right, flesh hand running over the painted metal. 

“I know it’s stupid, you don’t have to keep it,” you nervously mumbled. You reached forward to grab it back from him, 

He pulled his hand back, not willing to give up the present. “No, it’s not stupid. It’s cute,” he reassured.  

Your cheeks heated up in real time just like they did when he said that. 

He kept it. 

He kept the gag gift you got him. This silly little keychain was so important he kept it in a special keepsake box.

You almost couldn’t believe what you found. All the memories, all the stuff you gave him, all the things he cherished because they reminded him of you. It seemed like this box that sat in your lap held his very own heart and all his love for you. 

You shuffled the items back to how they were in the box when you found it. You assumed that was all there was to find in there. Until three candy wrappers fell out from between the various papers. 

Jolly Ranchers. Your favorite candy. 

You always had them on you. Kinda like an old lady that carries around hard candy. John always jokes that you’re an old woman when you grab a jolly rancher from your pocket or purse. He says you and Bucky are perfect for each other because you both have old person tendencies. 

Speaking of Bucky, because you often had candy on you, you always offered some to him. He always said yes. Here in his shoe box you saw one cherry and two green apple wrappers. 

You froze, staring at the candy wrappers. Even in the silence of his room you couldn’t hear the footsteps approaching. For a moment all you heard was your own heart pounding in your ears. 

The door creaked open. “Hey, you’ve been gone for a while. Did you find your watch?” Bucky asked, walking in the room. 

He stopped a few feet away from you. Your back was to him, the box hidden in your lap. But he knew you had it because he saw the lid on the floor next to you. 

You raised your hand and shook your wrist to show him the watch. “Yeah, I found it,” your voice sounded more hoarse than you expected. You quickly blinked away the tears that collected at your waterline right before he waked in.

Bucky took a few steps closer, and crouched down next to you. He brushed a piece of hair behind your ear. Now that he was close to you, he noticed how glassy your eyes were. 

He held your face in his hand, his thumb stroking your cheek. Your eyes fluttered close. 

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. My watch was under the bed and I found this,” you started rambling. “I saw my name. I know I shouldn’t have opened it-“ 

“Hey, hey it’s okay,” he soothed in a quiet voice. He turned your face towards his. “I’m not mad.” 

You nodded to confirm you understood. You sniffled and glanced between him and the box. 

“You kept all this.”  

“I did.” 

“Why?” 

It was a dumb question and you knew it. Yet the word still flew out of your mouth. 

He took a pause, breathing in. 

“This stuff means a lot to me. You mean a lot to me,” he answered like it was the easiest thing to say in the world. 

“After HYDRA, after all the-” he hesitated- “issues with my memory I started keeping stuff like this. To remember.”

With his free hand he grabbed the other side of your face. Bucky leaned closer, his bright blue eyes stared into yours and bore into your soul. You could’ve sworn they looked a little glassy.

“I want to make sure I remember you.” 

You lip quivered. Bucky leaned forward and captured your lips in a brief, gentle kiss. He rested his forehead against yours. 

“Can I ask about something in the box?”

“Anything.” 

“The napkin. I don’t remember it,” you confessed, voice quiet and curious. “Why did you save it?” 

“It was the team's first time at that bar. You were drunk and bored because they weren’t playing songs you liked. Someone left a pen on the bar and you sat there drawing on a napkin for twenty minutes.” Bucky paused as his lips curled into a smile. “You were so concentrated. The bar, the team, they were all so loud and distracting. But all your attention was on these little drawings. Like you were painting the Mona Lisa.”

He licked his lips, “that night I realized I have feelings for you.” 

A giddy smile snuck its way on your face before you kissed him. Slow and passionate. You poured all your love into that kiss to try and match the amount of devotion and love he had on display for you.

You pulled away, but not too far away. Your lips hovered over his. “I love you with all my heart. You know that right?” 

He lightly chuckled, “I know.” 

Bucky wiped away a stray tear that you didn’t know escaped and ran down your cheek. 

“I love you with all of mine,” he whispered, his voice soft with adoration.

[a-hermit-pining]

LADS Men React a Picture of You with Another guy

Request: Hii!! I love your writing so so much (pls never stop)!!! How do you think the lads men would react to the following scenario: mc makes one of her girl friends dress like a guy and post that on her story/moments (to ward off an annoying co-worker, like what Caleb did in uni, but mc didnt want to bother the guys with this request so she asked Tara or another one of her girl friends). The picture, though, is convincing enough to make even the lads men question if she actually does have a partner and who tf is he. I think Xavier would absolutely malfunction since they are also neighbours lol

AN: I am taking a break from the ship event to gather some inspiration. But this was super fun to write. Thank you for sending in such an amazing idea.

Warning: Potential Spoilers. Be Mindful 👺

Pairing: Lads boys x fem reader

Genre: fluff and angst

(I do not own these characters)

Summary: Waking up after an amazing girls' night, you and Tara spent the morning taking silly photos, making all kinds of concerning faces, until inspiration struck.

"Wait, wait, hold on," Tara grinned, pushing her short hair back. "What if—"

Moments later, you were both giggling uncontrollably, staging fake hard launch photos in your bed. The blurry, cozy results? Surprisingly convincing.

"Oh, this is gonna blow up at work."

Tara rested her chin on your neck, wrapping an arm around you for the final shot. The picture was better than you imagined, so naturally, you posted it to your story before the two of you rushed to get ready for work.

And just like that, your social media went up in flames.

Rafayel:

623 missed calls. 200 texts. 82 more missed calls.

All hours after your post.

Who is he? Why are you in bed with him? Is he your boyfriend? What is his name?

You barely have time to breathe after your meeting before the onslaught of texts floods in. Even the comment section of your post hasn’t been spared.

Thomas is already on the case. Rafayel is whining, sobbing, crying and absolutely not afraid to play dirty to get you back.

He's already planned a hundred ways to nip this budding romance at the root.

He thinks he has the upper hand, feels kinda smug about it too.

Still… there’s a twinge of heartbreak. A little ache for having to wait longer for you, for the idea that you might have chosen someone else. But if nothing else, Rafayel is persistent.

So, of course, he’s already forgiven you.

But don’t think, even for a second, that he won’t complain about it.

He’s still mulling over it, dramatically painting all his canvases black, getting ready for his villain arc, when you finally call him back.

"A prank?"

He is indignant.

He cried over a prank.

All that effort… for nothing.

"IT’S BEEN 800 YEARS. JELLYFISH ARE WALKING. NAKED SEA TURTLES ARE CLIMBING TREES. SHARKS ARE EATING GRASS—FOR FREE. "

AND RAFAYEL?

RAFAYEL CRIED OVER A PRANK.

HE WENT FULL VILLAIN ARC FOR A LIE.

HIS CANVASES ARE BLACK. HIS PLANS FOR REVENGE? RUINED.

ALL BECAUSE YOU AND TARA WANTED TO PLAY GAMES.

He might never recover. Might. But first, he needs to call Thomas back before his "investigation" starts a national crisis.

Xavier:

He had just returned from a long night of fighting Wanderers when his phone chimed with an alert.

Half-asleep, he smiled at the sight of your name, already thinking of how he'd respond once he changed and collapsed into bed.

That smile froze the moment he saw the picture.

The phone slipped from his fingers, landing on his face. But he didn’t even wince. Too numb to feel it.

His vision blurred. His chest ached. Tears welled, unbidden.

Genuinely heartbroken. So weary. So tired. For a moment, he was shattered.

Did he have the strength to wager another lifetime?

His time was already running out. His strength faded with each passing day. He had selfishly wanted this spring with you...but this was better for you. You were too kind, too caring to bear his loss.

Perhaps this was for the best. His lips trembled at the thought.

You had someone now, someone who would not bring you grief. And you looked so happy in that photo. He stared at the blurred curve of your smile, tracing it with his gaze.

Somehow, he managed a small smile too.

And then he folded into himself. And slept.

For days.

So long that you started to worry, noticing his absence at work.

Until, finally, you barge into his apartment, breathless and frantic, only to find him asleep, moonlight spilling across his face, eerily still.

Your heart plummeted.

"Xavier." Your voice trembled as you rushed to him, fingers shaking as you took his hand.

For a terrible, suffocating second, he didn’t move.

And then, his brow twitched.

Air rushed back into your lungs.

Zayne:

This was to be expected.

He was never what you needed.

He often failed at words. His gestures, too vague to be understood.

You deserved someone who loved you. Someone who had the courage to say those words out loud.

Not him.

Not someone who could hurt you. His scars only grow deeper with time.

So he accepts it. Buries himself in work.

If he could not be your lover, then he would play his part as a friend.

Pays extra attention to your health. Pours over your reports. He must. Because he is no longer close enough to watch over you himself.

And weeks later, when you finally visit him, he keeps up the act—cold, distant, unbothered.

He does all the tests. Runs all the checks. Everything is routine.

But you see it.

The dark circles, deeper than ever. His skin, paler. Cheeks, sunken. His shirt, unwashed.

"You're coming home with me."

Your voice leaves no room for argument as you take his hand. "You never call. You only text about my reports and nothing more. We need to talk."

You tug him forward. He follows, until he stops.

"Your boyfriend won���t like it," he murmurs, staring anywhere but at you.

Silence.

"What boyfriend?"

You blink at him, dumbfounded.

Sylus:

Sylus spits his coffee, choking as he stares at the pictures.

Does not buy it.

That’s clearly not a man.

Yet somehow, he keeps going back to it, again and again.

It’s only when Luke and Kieran peer over his shoulder that his denial starts cracking.

"Ooooh, boss has got competition," Luke chimes.

One minute, they’re laughing. The next, they’re outside the mansion, the door slamming shut behind them.

Luke blinks. "That explains..."

Kieran yanks him into a chokehold for getting them banished for the day.

Inside, Sylus switches to wine.

The day has been too much.

Not a man, right? he muses, scrutinizing the photo, before accidentally pressing the heart button.

And then, he all but chews the glass in his hand.

He’s not worried.

He just suddenly feels the urge to burn his entire closet because nothing looks good enough.

He doesn’t care.

He’s just made a few calls, just to make sure you’re not involved with anyone sketchy. Unless, of course, it’s him.

Then, like an absolute idiot, he gets a panicked call from an associate.

The only person who’s been in your apartment? Tara.

Sylus stares at the image. Facepalms.

That evening, when he picks you up from work, he looks exhausted.

As if a few hours have aged him years.

When you ask, he waves you off, dodging every question.

You raise a brow. "Are you sure? You look—"

"I said it’s nothing," he snaps, before sighing, dragging a hand down his face. "...Can we just go home

Caleb:

Storming to Linkon.

Geared up to blow up the entire apartment complex.

Spends five minutes struggling with the locked door before finally getting it open.

Marches in.

Stops. Sighs in disapproval at your empty fridge.

Good thing he packed snacks. Leaves them on your counter. You’ll thank him later.

Then, back to the mission.

Collects all forensic evidence needed. Marches out.

No time to waste.

Supervises the DNA administration.

Hair sample. Used coffee mug. Both next to yours.

He will find the bastard. He will take him out.

And then, he will whisk you away to Skyheaven, to console you once you learn of your tragic, mysterious loss.

Grief will bring you closer.

Every intern running tests is sweating.

So are the lead scientists, who have been personally forced to oversee this insanity.

No one is messing with the colonel today.

And then, finally, the results land on his desk.

Caleb stares. Dumbfounded.

Is he to fight both men and women for you now?

You better watch out for Tara because he does not discriminate.

[fireinmoonshot]

unreal | robert reynolds x reader

THIS CONTAINS SPOILERS FOR MARVEL'S THUNDERBOLTS*.

Pairing: Robert 'Bob' Reynolds x Reader Summary: Bob offers for you to share his room while your room in the Watch Tower gets renovated... there's just one problem – he didn't think about the fact that he'd have to share a bed with you. Warnings: General mentions of mental health issues (nothing specific) Word Count: 2.1k A/N: Okay, so it's been over a week since I last wrote for Bob and the response on my last Bob fic is insane. I cannot believe how much love it's gotten 🥹 I have since seen Thunderbolts three more times and I love Bob even more. This was the fic idea that won in the poll I posted earlier today and it was so enjoyable to write. I am really looking forward to writing more for him (including the other ideas that I had in the poll). I hope you all enjoy this one as well. Requests are always open! 💗

“You can share my room” are five words that Bob regrets the second that they’re out of his mouth. Not because he doesn’t want you to share his room, but just because now that it’s out in the open, the prospect of you saying yes is terrifying.

When you’d all moved into the Watch Tower, you hadn’t considered the fact that most of the building was still a work in progress. There were so many rooms that still needed to be built and while there had been bedrooms, there weren’t many and Valentina had insisted on building you all your own. Nothing but the best for my New Avengers, she’d said.

Your bedroom was the last one to be renovated. Every other member of the team had gone through the room-sharing phase while their rooms were completed. Yelena and Ava had always shared, though they’d hated every second of it – both girls loved their personal space. Both Bucky and John refused to share with Alexei. Bob had managed to come out the other end without sharing a room at all. 

Until his offer to you, that is.

“Seriously?” You ask, crossing your arms over your chest as you look around at the others. “None of you are offering to share with me so you’re making Bob offer?”

Walker scoffs. “You think we put him up to it? Please.”

“No one put me up to it,” Bob shakes his head. “I just thought I’d ask you since… y’know… none of the others have… and you probably don’t wanna sleep on the couch out here.”

He’s not really sure why he’d offered, actually. The words had been out of his mouth before he’d had a chance to think them over, which was strange for him. He supposes it might have something to do with the fact that he’s been crushing on you for a solid few months. It would be fine, though. He didn’t have a couch in his room, but he’s slept on his fair share of floors before and this one would be no different. Sharing a bedroom with someone he was slowly falling head over heels with was definitely going to end well.

You cross the room and put a hand down on Bob’s shoulder. “Are you really sure you want me to share with you? I know you haven’t had to share before and I really don’t want to intrude on your space.” Your voice is soft, for Bob’s ears only.

He nods once. “It’ll be fine. I promise.”

You don’t completely believe him. He’s undoubtedly the most independent out of all of you, but it’s been proven that he really does love being around other people. The last thing you want is to get in his way or make him uncomfortable.

“Bob,” you meet his eyes. 

His lips turn up into a small smile at the tone of your voice. “I wouldn’t have offered if I didn’t want to share with you.”

That seems to do the trick, because you nod your head and step away from Bob after that before announcing that you’re going to go and start getting all your things together. 

That afternoon, you move your things into his room so that the renovations can start on your own. Bob makes some space for you – not that he has a lot of things himself – but he wants to make you feel comfortable. He doesn’t want you to feel like you’re living in his room. He wants it to feel like it’s yours too.

It only starts to feel real once it’s gotten dark outside and everyone has started to retire to bed. Once he’s in his room again, sitting on a bean bag in the corner, a book in his hand and he sees you walk into his room, hair a little bit wet from your shower. 

“I just realised,” you say, stopping in the centre of the room and looking around, “that you don’t have a couch.”

“Oh, yeah,” Bob nods, closing the book and sitting up a little straighter. “I just sit here. I, uh, I changed the sheets on the bed earlier so that you don’t have to sleep in dirty ones.”

You frown and look over at him. “Me? I’m not sleeping in your bed, Bob. I assumed I’d sleep on the couch. But I can just sleep on your beanbag. I’ll go and find some blankets…”

You turn to go and leave the room when you see Bob standing up in the corner of your eye. He stumbles a little, the blanket on the ground in front of him briefly catching his feet, and then rights himself. 

“No, you don’t have to do that,” he says. “You take the bed. I’m fine with sleeping on the floor. I’ve done it more often than you think.”

“Bob… you’re not sleeping on the floor.”

He shrugs his shoulders. “It’s really okay.”

He really doesn’t mind. As long as you’re comfortable, he will be too. He’s slept in worse places. Plus, he doubts he’d even be able to sleep soundly knowing you were uncomfortable on the cold, hard floor. How could he let the person he likes sleep there rather than on his perfectly comfortable bed?

You cross your arms over your chest and shake your head, slowly starting to walk towards him. This is a losing battle, you can see that. There’s no way that Bob is going to relent and let you sleep on the floor or the bean bag, and there’s no way you’re going to let him sleep there either. You couldn’t live with yourself if he did.

“Why don’t we both take the bed?” You suggest.

Bob’s eyes widen a little and he opens his mouth and then closes it again without saying anything. That’s the last thing he’d expected you to say. Sharing a bed? Had any of the others shared beds when they’d shared rooms? He highly doubted that. The members of the New Avengers weren’t particularly comfortable when it came to physical contact. 

“I don’t think we have to do that,” he mutters.

“Why not? I don’t mind it. That way, we both get to sleep on the bed and neither of us have to be uncomfortable on the floor. I promise I’ll stick to my side.”

Bob stares at you for a moment. You’re really suggesting this. You really want to share a bed with him. But how is he supposed to share a bed with you? This is not going to be beneficial towards his crush at all. It’s definitely not going to help him in his mission to get over you… he hadn’t started on that mission yet but he was definitely going to start soon… oh, he really shouldn’t have suggested this…

“All right, then,” he hums, and then squeezes his eyes shut as he winces. What the hell is he doing? Why are the words he’s speaking and the thoughts he’s having so out of sync?

You smile at him – one of the beautiful smiles that always sets his heart alight – and then move towards the bed. “Which side do you usually sleep on?” 

“Closest to the door,” he says, starting to walk towards it.

“A man after my own heart,” you grin, voice teasing as you pull the sheets back to the other side of the bed and slip underneath them. “Can you get the lights?” 

Bob tries his best to ignore your words, thinking about how he is actually after your heart, and slowly walks towards the light switch. He turns them off, then makes his way towards the bed in the dark. His heart is racing in his chest. It’s not until he’s sitting on the bed, hands fisted in the sheets, that he realises he’s sweating bullets.

He’d forgotten. How could he forget something like this? He’s always run hot. He’s been known to wake up in the middle of the night, drenched in sweat, especially after a nightmare.

Maybe, once you’re asleep, he can slip out of the bed and go back to the bean bag without waking you up… surely that would be okay. He could make up some excuse in the morning about not being able to sleep in the bed…

“Everything all right?” You ask from beside him.

The room is so dark that he can’t see you to tell how far away from him you are, but your voice is close. He trusts that you’ve stuck to your word, though, and that you haven’t crept over to his side of the bed.

“I don’t know if this is a good idea actually.”

He hears the sheets rustling and can somehow tell that you’re sitting up now. 

“Why not?”

Bob sighs and tucks a piece of his hair behind his ear. He doesn’t know why he’s so embarrassed about this. It’s not like you don’t know. You were there in the vault. You heard him admit it to Yelena. You’ve seen so many parts of him that he hates and you’ve never judged him for any of them, so why would you judge him for this now?

“Hey,” your voice is gentle. “You can tell me. If you don’t want me here, I can go.”

“No,” Bob shakes his head, quick to respond. He doesn’t want you to feel like you’re not welcome here when truthfully, all he wants is to have you here with him. He just wishes he wasn’t so awkward about it. “It’s not that. It’s just…”

“There’s no rush.” 

He turns to look at where you’re sitting, his eyes now adjusted to the darkness so he can see you just barely. “I run hot,” he says quietly. “I don’t want to make you uncomfortable if I sweat a lot during the night. I should just sleep on the floor by myself.”

There’s silence for a moment and Bob takes that as your answer. He swings his legs off the bed and is just about to stand up when he feels the mattress shift underneath him, and then he feels your warmth pressed against his side.

“Hey, no,” you hum, leaning your arm against his. “Don’t do that. You don’t have to worry about things like that with me. If you sleep on the floor, I’m sleeping on the floor too. You’re not giving up your comforts for me.”

Bob turns to look at you through the darkness. “I’d just make you uncomfortable.”

“No,” you reach down and find his hand, entwining your fingers together. It’s true that the members of your team are bad when it comes to physical contact, but you don’t mind it. Bob’s always been a little concerned about touch ever since the incident that had happened a few months back but you can tell by the way he doesn’t tense up at your touch that he doesn’t mind it. You’re surprised to find you can actually feel him relax a little. “You won’t.” 

“I won’t?” 

“No,” you repeat. “I’m really glad you offered for me to share your room, Bob. I don’t care if you run so hot that the whole bed feels like a giant inferno. I’m not going to leave unless you ask me to.”

“I won’t. ” 

You give his hand a squeeze. “Okay, so should we get back into bed and try and get some sleep then?”

Bob nods and then remembers it’s dark and you probably can’t see him. “Yeah, all right.”

He hates the feeling of emptiness when you let go of his hand. He can feel the mattress shifting as you move back to your side of the bed. It takes every part of him to swing his legs back up and to lay down. It’s only once his head hits the pillow that he feels truly relaxed. It’s strange, even just knowing that you’re right beside him puts him a little bit at ease.

“I’ll see you in the morning, okay?” You say, voice so close to him that he almost jumps.

“Okay,” he murmurs, staring up at the dark ceiling above him. 

He’s so certain he’s going to wake up in the morning and all of this will have just been a dream. Not a good dream, not a bad dream. Just an unreal one. One where you hold his hand and sleep beside him. One where, as he’s drifting off to sleep he can feel the warmth of your body inches away. One where he can remember the feeling of your arm pressed against his with such clarity it almost feels real. 

But when he wakes up in the morning, the first thing he sees is you sleeping soundly beside him and he knows it wasn’t a dream. A small smile makes its way onto his face. He can’t remember the last time he slept through the night without waking up… not until right now. 

[leriexoxo]

Unknown Number

Idol! Chan x Stay! Reader

Tags: strangers to something more, voice kink, phone sex, anonymous sexting, slow reveal, idol!Chan is lurking, dirty talk, mystery man AU, smut 18+, blindfolds, unprotected sex, thigh riding, dom chan, praise kink, oral (f receiving) fingering

Word count: 5.4k

Summary: It starts with a text. A no-name number. A bold stranger in the dark. He saw your comment in a chaotic Stay group chat—“those fingers could ruin my life”—and now he won’t leave you alone. But maybe you don’t want him to. Because his texts are flirty, filthy, and just the right kind of fucked up. Because his voice notes make your thighs press together. Because he talks like he already knows what you sound like when you come. And the worst part? His voice sounds dangerously familiar.

This work contains mature themes, MINORS DO NOT INTERACT!!!

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

The first text came at 12:43 AM.

Unknown Number:

hey. you awake?

You didn’t recognize it. No name. No contact photo. Just numbers. But something about the timing—and the boldness—had your curiosity flaring.

You hesitated, thumb hovering. Then answered.

You:

who’s this?

Unknown Number:

just a bored stranger. saw your number in that stay gc. figured you wouldn’t mind the company.

You blinked. That group had been pure chaos, a flood of usernames and selfies and people throwing their numbers around like confetti. You almost forgot you’d joined it in the first place.

You:

wow. bold of you to admit you’re creeping in there like that lol

also… which one were you? i don’t remember you posting anything

A pause.

Then—

Unknown Number:

i didn’t

i like watching more than talking

especially when the girls are that pretty

Your stomach dipped.

Flirty. Shameless. You should’ve blocked him.

Instead, your lips curled.

You:

so what—you just stalked and picked the first girl who looked like she’d be down to text a stranger?

Unknown Number:

no. i picked the one who made that comment about chan’s hands during that encore stage.

you said, “those fingers could ruin my life” and i haven’t stopped thinking about it since.

You froze.

Your heart stuttered. You remembered typing that. The GC had been flying, no way to know who’d even seen it. And now it was echoing back at you from some faceless man in the dark.

You:

you’re a menace.

admit it. you get off on lurking. Chan would be horrified.

Another pause.

Unknown Number:

maybe, but i think he’d understand

You:

oh yeah? why’s that?

Unknown Number:

because if i were him, i’d want to know exactly who says that kind of stuff about me.

especially if she meant it.

Your breath caught.

You:

…and do you?

mean it?

Unknown Number:

every word.

but you tell me—should i be worried you’re the type to flirt with strangers this easily?

You smirked at your screen, heartbeat kicking faster.

You:

maybe i just have a thing for mystery

or maybe i like the idea that some stranger out there is thinking about me when he should be sleeping

Unknown Number:

you should stop saying things like that

You:

why?

Unknown Number:

because now i’m wondering how you sound when you’re out of breath

You stared at the message a beat too long. It’s not even what he said—it’s the way he said it. Like he already knew he could be the one to pull that sound out of you.

You:

that’s a bold thing to say to someone you’ve never met. you don’t even know what i look like

Unknown Number:

don’t need to.

i like your brain first.

your mouth second.

the rest is just a bonus.

Your breath stuttered in your chest. Who was this guy?

You:

you talk like you’ve done this before

seducing strangers through a screen

Unknown Number:

i don’t.

just bored. and maybe a little curious.

You:

curious about what?

Unknown Number:

what kind of girl sends texts like that about chan’s fingers

and whether she texts even filthier things when she’s comfortable

You bit your lip, grinning.

You:

maybe you’ll find out if you don’t scare me off first

Unknown Number:

oh baby, if you scare easy… you wouldn’t have replied to me at all

The way he called you baby shouldn’t have made your stomach flip like it did. It wasn’t even a real person. You didn’t know who was on the other end. And yet—you couldn’t stop.

⸻

Day 3

Unknown Number:

still thinking about the way you said “ruin my life”

i wonder how far you’d really let someone take that

You:

depends on who it is

Unknown Number:

so if it were chan? you’d let him?

You:

you ask a lot of questions for someone hiding behind a fake number

Unknown Number:

maybe i’m just trying to find the perfect way to ruin you myself

Day 6

The texting hadn’t stopped.

It was not constant—but it was regular. Little things. Late-night provocations. Random check-ins. Sometimes he was sweet. Sometimes unhinged. But always flirtatious. Always suggestive. And always reading you too well.

Unknown Number:

you at work?

You:

yeah, bored af… why?

Unknown Number:

just picturing you trying to act normal after everything you said last night

like a good girl pretending she didn’t admit she wanted to be choked

Your fingers paused mid-typing.

You:

you’re twisted

i like it

Unknown Number:

i know you do

you’re just as fucked up as me and i haven’t even told you the worst parts yet

A few seconds of his typing bubble coming and going, before the next text dropped.

Unknown Number:

what’s the dirtiest thing you’ve ever imagined about him?

No warning. No easing into it. Just dropped into your messages like a match on gasoline.

You stared at the screen, thumb hovering. You could’ve played coy. Could’ve brushed it off. But it was late, your inhibitions were low, and this was him—your anonymous stranger, your chaos comfort. The one person who let you say anything without judgement.

So, you gave him the truth.

You:

i think about riding his thigh way too much, like full on grinding in his studio, late at night.

headphones on, shirt off, music playing like nothing’s wrong, but i’m coming on his leg while he pretends to mix tracks

There was silence after that. No typing bubble. Nothing.

For a minute, you wondered if you’d finally gone too far. Made it too real. But then your screen lit up again—except this time, not with a message.

A voice note.

You stared at it.

The little waveform pulsed quietly, like it was waiting. And before you could think twice, you pressed play.

It started with a low breath. Like someone trying to keep their cool and failing.

Then—

“Fuck… you’re gonna kill me.”

The voice was deep. Gravel and heat and something so raw it skated straight down your spine. Familiar. Not too familiar—but something about it made your skin prickle.

“I shouldn’t be imagining it, but now I am,” the voice continued. Rough. Lazy. Wrecked. “You bouncing on my thigh, making those soft little noises you don’t even know you make…”

A pause.

Then a quiet, throaty chuckle.

“…and you expect me to sit still and pretend nothing’s happening? Baby, if you ever climbed on me like that, you wouldn’t be leaving the studio for hours.”

The recording cut off with the sound of a sharp inhale, like he was about to say more—but stopped himself.

Your heart pounded.

It wasn’t just the filth. Wasn’t just the way he said baby like he already owned your body. It was the tone. Something in it that teased the edges of recognition, like a song you couldn’t quite place. Not a perfect match—but a ghost of one. You frowned, replayed the voice in your mind, again and again.

And failed to ignore the stupid, impossible thought that whispered— No. It couldn’t be.

Could it?

You:

that voice

have we met before?

The message stayed unread for a few minutes.

And then—

Unknown Number:

not yet

—

You shouldn’t have replayed the voice note.

But you did.

Over and over. Lying in bed with your knees pulled to your chest, phone pressed to your ear like it held answers. And maybe it did—just not the kind that made sense. Because that voice did something to you. Tugged on a thread you didn’t know was loose.

Low. Deep. That exact kind of rough that spilled into your dreams when you thought about Chan whispering filth behind your ear.

Except… this wasn’t a fantasy anymore.

You’d said his name in front of a stranger. Described yourself melting on Chan’s thigh. And he hadn’t flinched. Hadn’t pulled away.

He’d responded like he’d wanted it. Like he was the one holding your hips down.

And God—that voice.

You tapped open a random behind-the-scenes video. Just to compare. Just to check.

Your breath hitched.

No. No way. Not possible. You were being insane.

Still… your chest felt too tight.

You:

i’m spiraling, don’t mind me

just casually obsessing over that voice note. you sound so familiar it’s driving me crazy

No reply. For hours.

But what you didn’t know—what you couldn’t know—was that while you were busy unraveling, so was he.

Because you’d told him your name once. Offhanded. Way back on Day Two, when he called you baby girl in a text and you laughed, saying—

“you don’t even know me, my guy. it’s [Y/N], by the way.”

And that was all it took.

He went looking. Lurking. He searched through the GC again, found your profile. Clicked your socials.

And then he saw you.

Saw the face behind the dirty little texts. The smile that curled when you teased. The thighs you said you wanted to ride his with. The lips. The eyes. The one bikini pic you posted with zero shame and a caption that said “it’s too hot out” like you didn’t just set his whole body on fire.

He stared at your selfies so long he forgot to breathe.

And when he finally responded— It wasn’t with a text.

It was another voice note.

You saw the waveform and your stomach flipped.

Pressed play.

“Just saw your page.”

His voice came out lower this time. Slower. Like smoke and honey and trouble.

“You’re real pretty, y’know that?”

A pause. You could almost feel him grinning.

“Exactly my type. That mouth of yours would look even better wrapped around my fingers.”

You choked on air.

“If I had you in front of me right now, baby… I’d ruin you. You’d be soaked just from hearing the way I breathe your name.”

Your pulse skipped.

“Should I say it? Should I moan it for you next time?”

Click. It ended there.

You stared at your screen like it had slapped you. Your thighs pressed together on instinct, heat crawling up your neck. He knew now. He’d seen you. And suddenly, it wasn’t just a game anymore.

It felt like a trap.

And you were walking right into it.

You:

what else did you see?

Unknown Number:

enough to want more

every. single. night.

You didn’t respond right away.

You needed time to breathe, time to cool down—except, you didn’t. Not really.

You were already wet before the voice note ended.

Already playing it back in your head like it was your favorite late-night playlist. That voice, so low and thick in your ears. That cocky little pause before he asked if he should moan your name.

You almost said yes.

Almost begged for it.

But instead, you smiled—schemed.

You weren’t stupid. He’d seen your socials. He was definitely stalking now. You had no doubt he’d clocked your Chan obsession.

So you decided to play a little.

Test the limits.

You:

i keep wondering what you’d sound like really moaning my name

like… if i had my mouth on you

would you curse? or say something soft in… korean maybe?

Three dots. Then nothing.

A beat.

Then the voice note came in. You didn’t even hesitate this time.

Click.

“…you’d hear both,” he rasped, already sounding out of breath. “I’d be praising you in English and cursing in Korean. You’d earn every damn syllable.”

Your mouth went dry.

“But you’d have to beg for it,” he added. “On your knees. All needy, telling me exactly what you want. Exactly how deep.”

Click.

Your core throbbed.

Still—you had a goal tonight. And it wasn’t just soaking your panties.

So you pushed further.

You:

you’re so good at dirty talk

you sure you’re not some secret idol who’s had media training or something?

you kinda sound like you know how to use a mic

You smiled as you sent it. Waited.

Unknown Number:

haha! you’re cute

That’s it? No voice note this time. You narrowed your eyes, smirking.

You:

i’m serious though, i listened to one of chan’s old vlives today

he’s got a sexy ass voice, kinda deep like yours when you talk slow. you two could be twins

You watched the “read” receipt pop up instantly.

No response.

You:

wait…you’re not him, right?

imagine

Nothing.

Your phone stayed silent for almost ten whole minutes.

And then it buzzed again—another voice note.

You could already feel the grin spreading across your face as you hit play.

“I’m not him,” the voice crooned, low and slow like warm silk. “But if I was… you think I’d let you get away with saying shit like that without consequences?”

You bit your lip hard. The recording continued.

“You’d be bent over that couch before you finished the sentence, baby. Face down. Ass up. I’d remind you exactly what my voice sounds like when you’re full of me.”

Click.

You didn’t realize your thighs had clenched together until your muscles ached.

And still—you weren’t done.

You:

you’re really good at this

whoever you are

maybe too good, maybe i should be scared

Unknown Number:

then stop teasing or i’ll make you say my name while you come

Your pulse jumped.

And for the first time all night… you wondered if maybe, just maybe, you already had.

⸻

Your legs were already trembling.

You’d been edging yourself for the past ten minutes—hand under the sheets, replaying that voice note like it was a playlist you couldn’t live without. Every time he said baby in that ruined growl, your fingers slipped lower. Every time he whispered what he’d do to you, your breath hitched.

And then you got brave.

Your thumb hovered over the record icon. You didn’t think. You just pressed.

You let the silence hang for a second—just your breathing, soft and needy. You let him feel how real it was.

Then you whispered, voice hushed, drenched in heat:

“Wanna know how I sound when I imagine Chan fucking me?”

Another pause. Then a soft, teasing whimper. Just enough to make his imagination snap.

“I moan his name like it’s the only word I know,” you purred. “I picture him grabbing my throat, whispering dirty things in that deep voice and accent, and I can’t help it. I’m already dripping.”

You let your breath hitch again. Just once. Just enough.

“I imagine him pushing me up against the wall in his studio, whispering ‘good girl’ against my mouth, and I lose it. I come just from his voice.”

Click.

You stared at the screen, heartbeat in your throat. No regrets.

He didn’t answer immediately.

But when he did—oh, God.

It was instant.

Unknown Number:

baby.

Another voice note dropped in seconds later.

You didn’t even brace yourself this time. You wanted to hear him break.

Click.

“You really wanna play that game?” His voice was pure gravel now, thick with restraint. You could hear the tension, the crack in it.

“Do you have any idea what you just did to me?”

You bit your lip.

“I’m not gonna last if you keep saying shit like that. Fuck—you’re dangerous.”

Another pause. A breath. Something almost like a growl.

“You wanna take this further?”

Your breath caught.

“Take a chance on me. Meet me. Let me ruin you for real.”

You blinked, heart hammering now for a different reason.

Then the final blow—

“I’ll tell you my name in person,” he said, voice dropping to a whisper. “But you’ll be screaming it by the end of the night anyway.”

Click.

You stared at your phone, stunned. Soaked. Shaking.

Unknown Number:

yes or no

one word baby, and i’ll tell you where to find me

You didn’t text back. You couldn’t. Your hands were shaking too hard to type. So you hit the call button.

Just like that.

Your thumb hovered for half a second before it connected. And then it rang. Once. Twice.

He picked up.

“Fuck,” he breathed—just that.

And it hit you low.

His voice—real, not filtered through a voice note. It filled your ear like silk-wrapped sin, deep and slick and raw.

“You really called me,” he said, almost laughing under his breath, like he couldn’t believe it either. “God, you sound—”

“Wrecked,” you rasped. “I sound completely wrecked.”

His inhale was sharp. You could barely get words out.

“I can’t stop thinking about you,” you whispered. “Your voice—your fucking voice—it’s like every fantasy I’ve ever had about Chan, but worse.”

He choked. “Worse?”

You whimpered softly, dragging your palm across your soaked core, no longer caring if he could hear.

“He ruins me,” you breathed. “In my head, he’s so mean. Doesn’t even give me time to adjust. Just whispers, ‘take it,’ and—”

“Jesus Christ,” he growled.

“—And I do. I take it like a good girl. Like I’m supposed to.”

He was silent. But you could hear his breathing—heavy, desperate. Like his hand was wrapped around himself already.

You swallowed, voice dipping lower. “I imagine riding his thigh and crying when he doesn’t let me come. You think I’m sick for that?”

“…No,” he rasped. “I think I wanna see it.”

You bit your lip hard. “You’d really watch me fuck myself stupid over your voice?”

“I’d hold your hips down,” he said. “Make you say please. Make you scream.”

And you moaned. Right into the speaker.

Soft. Real. Honest.

He gasped—just a little. That sound did something to him. You felt it.

“Say it again,” he whispered. “Say my name.”

“Chan—” It slipped. You didn’t even think.

And he shuddered.

“Fucking hell. Say it again.”

“Chan—” breathy, broken.

“Keep going.”

“Chan, please,” you whimpered. “Please, I need—fuck—I need you inside me, I can’t—”

His voice broke, cracked, fractured in your ear. You still didn’t hear it. You didn’t notice.

Because in your head, this wasn’t real. There was no way your ultimate fantasy, your favorite idol, the man who owned your soul with one smirk on stage—was the stranger breathing ragged into your phone right now.

There was no way Chan could be real. No way he’d call you baby in that exact voice. No way he’d whisper—

“Say yes.”

Your lashes fluttered.

“To what?” you asked, dizzy.

“Say yes,” he repeated. “To seeing me. Let me prove what I’ll do to you.”

You swallowed hard. You wanted it. All of it.

Still clueless. Still soaked. Still talking to the one man you thought was impossible.

“yes.”

⸻

The car ride felt longer than it was.

Your thighs stayed pressed together the whole time, hands fidgeting in your lap. You kept reapplying lip balm even though it was perfect. Kept checking your phone even though he hadn’t messaged again—not since you said yes.

Just one message. “Penthouse” One pin drop location.

No name still. No other clue.

But you went. You had to.

You reached the building—quiet street, upscale high-rise. Your heels clicked softly against polished marble floors as you made your way through the lobby, every step heavier than the last.

Penthouse suite.

Of course.

He had money. You knew that already. The voice, the confidence, the way he said he’d show you what your fantasies felt like in real life—he wasn’t bluffing.

You stopped in front of the door.

Stared.

And then, hand trembling, you raised your knuckles and knocked once.

Silence.

And then—

The door opened. Your heart stopped.

The man standing there was familiar.

Too familiar.

Too—

“…Chan?” you whispered, eyes wide, stomach lurching.

He leaned against the doorframe, black hoodie hanging off one shoulder, hair messy like he’d been running his fingers through it for hours. His chain glinted in the soft hallway light.

One corner of his mouth curved up.

And that voice—that voice that had ruined you all night—slid through your skull like molten sin.

“Surprise, baby.”

You froze.

Mouth parted. Eyes locked on his. Brain not catching up.

You were standing face to face with Bang Chan.

Your idol. Your obsession. Your late-night fantasy.

The man who whispered filth into your ear like it was made for you.

“You’re—” You choked. “No way. There’s no fucking way—”

Chan stepped closer. Just one slow, predatory step.

“You called me Chan when you moaned,” he said, dark eyes locked on your lips. “You knew.”

“I—I thought I was just—I didn’t think—”

He laughed softly, jaw flexing. “But it was always right there in front of you baby”

You backed up a step, but his hand shot out—gripped your waist. Firm. Steady. Possessive.

“I’ve been dying to touch you since the second I saw your profile, Y/N. You think I didn’t notice the way you talk about me online? You practically begged me to ruin you.”

Your knees buckled slightly.

“Now,” he murmured, dragging you inside and shutting the door behind you, “I’m gonna make good on every filthy thing we both said.”

Your back hit the wall.

“But this time,” he whispered, voice all gravel and heat, “you won’t be able to pretend it’s just a fantasy.”

His mouth hovered inches from yours. Pupils blown.

Close enough to feel the heat, to smell the faint trace of his cologne—clean, smoky, dark. Your pulse thudded in your ears, wild and loud. You still couldn’t believe it. Couldn’t breathe.

Chan’s hand slid from your waist to your jaw, slow and steady, like he was testing how much of you he was allowed to own. His thumb grazed your bottom lip, tugged it slightly, eyes never leaving yours.

“Still think this is a dream?”

You shook your head, barely.

“Good,” he whispered. “Because I don’t want you waking up anytime soon.”

You leaned in, lips parted, waiting—begging—for his mouth.

But he smirked. Didn’t kiss you.

Instead, he leaned to your ear, breath hot against your skin, and whispered—

“You thought about me in this hoodie, didn’t you?

Your stomach dropped.

“Imagined me pulling it off, pressing you into my mattress—making you forget your own name.”

You whimpered, thighs clenching together.

“I heard every sound you made earlier,” he murmured. “You didn’t even try to hide how wet you were.”

“Chan—” you whispered, but it cracked.

“Mm. Just like that. Say it again.”

“Chan—”

He groaned.

“You don’t know what you’re doing to me,” he muttered, leaning back just enough to look you over. His gaze dragged down your body—slow, heavy, hungry. “Fuck, you’re exactly my type. Pretty little mouth, skin I wanna bite, and thighs begging to be spread.”

You shivered, hands gripping the front of his hoodie.

“Touch me,” you whispered.

“Not yet.”

You blinked. “W-What?”

His mouth was at your neck now, barely brushing your skin. Not kissing. Not biting. Just hovering.

“You already gave me everything over the phone, didn’t you? Your moans. Your voice. Every filthy thing you wanted me to do.”

His voice dropped to a sinful purr.

“So now I wanna watch you beg.”

You gasped.

“You gonna let me see how desperate you get for me? Right here, baby. Against this wall.”

You swallowed hard. Your hands slid down his chest, fingers trembling.

He grabbed your wrists—lightly, but enough to stop you.

“Mm-mm,” he hummed, lips brushing your cheek. “I said beg.”

“Chan, please,” you whimpered, arching your back just slightly, pushing your chest against his. “You don’t know how badly I need you.”

“No,” he said, low and lethal. “I do. And that’s why I’m not giving it to you yet.”

His hand slid up your thigh—almost. Almost.

Then it stopped.

“You think I’m cruel now?” he whispered. “Wait until I’m inside you and still not letting you come.”

You whined—loud.

And he laughed, dark and breathless. “There she is.”

Then finally—finally—he kissed you.

Not soft, Not sweet.

Claiming.

Tongue first. No warning. Hands gripping your hips like he owned them. You barely got a breath in before he pressed you harder into the wall, lips devouring yours like he’d been waiting a lifetime.

You moaned into his mouth, and he swallowed it whole.

And then—he pulled back, chest heaving.

“One more chance to back out, baby,” he said, voice wrecked. “Because after tonight, things are gonna be different.”

“Please—”

He led you down the hallway with his hand on your lower back—no words, no teasing now, just heat radiating off his body like it was built to burn you.

The lights were low, but his room still felt rich. Sleek lines, black sheets, cool-toned walls. And you—blinking at your reflection in the floor-length mirror across from the bed—trying to remember how to breathe.

“Sit,” he said, and you did.

The bed dipped beneath your weight, silk beneath your fingers. He stood in front of you, hoodie still on, eyes dark and patient like a man who already knew how the night would end.

But then—you stilled when you saw what was in his hand.

A blindfold.

You looked up at him, breath catching.

“Trust me?” he asked softly.

You nodded. He stepped closer, brushing hair away from your face before tying the fabric around your eyes. Not too tight. Not uncomfortable. But enough to change everything.

“You don’t need to see me tonight,” he whispered against your cheek. “You’ve heard me. Felt me. Begged for me.”

He guided you backward, hands careful on your shoulders, until you were flat on the bed.

“Tonight,” he whispered, breath ghosting your throat, “you only get sound. And touch. And need.”

You whimpered, arching instinctively, trying to find his mouth, his hands, anything—

But he just laughed. Dark. Low. Almost cruel.

“Desperate already?” he murmured.

“Chan, please—”

“Mm. That’s the one.”

Then his hands—warm, wide—slid down your sides. Slowly. Reverently. But he still hadn’t really touched you.

Until— He moved.

Positioned you without a word. Straddled his thigh between your legs, gripped your waist, and pulled you flush against him.

You gasped—sharp, involuntary.

The muscle flexed beneath you. Solid. Hot. Right where you needed him.

“There,” he whispered. “Didn’t you say you thought about this?”

You nodded frantically, blindfolded and panting.

“Riding my thigh while I whisper all the things I’d do to you?”

“Fuck,” you whimpered, already grinding.

“That’s it, baby. Show me.”

He let you move. Just watched. Let you use him, breath heavy and dirty in your ear as he spoke.

“You’re soaked, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” you cried.

“Messing up my pants like a good girl. Gonna leave a stain right there, huh?”

He flexed again.

You whined.

His lips brushed your ear.

“You want my cock already, but I’m making you come just like this. Wanna hear how greedy you sound.”

You moaned—loud, desperate.

“Shh,” he whispered. “Or I’ll stop. We don’t come until I say so.”

“Chan, please—please—”

But he stayed still, hand pressing lightly on your lower back.

“You’ll come when I let you. Not a second before.”

And that broke you.

Your body shook, thighs trembling as he slowed you down, holding you in place.

“You wanna be good for me, baby?” he breathed, lips against your neck. “Take the blindfold off and get on all fours.”

You froze.

He tugged the blindfold free.

You blinked, dazed, ruined.

“Turn around,” he said. “Now.”

And you did.

Hands on the sheets. Ass up. Back arched.

You looked over your shoulder—heart stuttering when you saw him standing there, hoodie off, black tank hugging his chest, chain catching the light.

“You’re gonna take me now,” he growled, stepping closer, voice low and possessive. “Every inch. Every word. Every fantasy.”

“And after that?” you whispered, eyes wide, skin burning.

His smile turned sinful.

“You’ll never think of me as your idol again.”

You felt his body behind you before you heard him move.

A warm palm smoothed over your back, from the dip of your spine to the curve of your ass. Gentle. Reverent. Worshipping. He breathed slow, like he was grounding himself. Like if he wasn’t careful, he’d devour you whole before he even got inside.

“You’re perfect like this,” he murmured. “Fuck, baby. Do you even know what you’re doing to me?”

You tried to answer, but the words melted on your tongue when he leaned down—chest grazing your back, lips brushing your neck.

“You let me hear you. Let me tease you. Let me own your body before I ever saw your face.”

His fingers slid under the waistband of your underwear, dragging slow.

“And now that I have all of you…” He kissed your shoulder. “You’re not leaving my bed until I’ve ruined you.”

You whimpered.

He laughed, breath hot and low.

“Still so shy? After everything you said to me?”

You turned your head, lips parted. “I want it. All of it.”

That broke him.

The sound he made wasn’t human.

He tore your underwear down and off in one swift pull. Fingers gripped your thighs—tight. Spreading them wide. Exposing you completely.

“Fuck me…” he breathed. “So wet. And you haven’t even been touched yet.”

“Chan—”

He dropped to his knees behind you.

And licked a stripe up your center.

You screamed.

“That’s it, baby,” he growled against you. “Sing for me.”

He devoured like a man starved—tongue precise, relentless, cruel. Two fingers slipped inside, curling just right. Your moans turned messy, hips jerking, hands clawing the sheets.

“That spot?” he rasped. “Right there?”

“Yes—yes—please—”

He spanked your ass once, hard.

“Then take it.”

You shattered—body convulsing, legs trembling, gasping his name like a lifeline. But even through your orgasm, he didn’t stop. Didn’t slow. Didn’t let you rest.

“One more,” he ordered. “I want you crying before I even fuck you.”

Your vision blurred. Your thighs trembled. You came again—harder, louder, incoherent.

And then— He pulled away.

You blinked back into the world to see him standing over you, eyes blown black, jaw clenched.

He grabbed your hips, dragged you up and back, and lined himself at your entrance.

“Last chance to run.”

You shook your head, tears on your lashes. “Want you.”

He thrusted in—slow, deep, unrelenting.

You both moaned—his hands squeezing your hips so tight you knew you’d bruise.

“So fucking tight,” he growled. “Like you were made for me.”

You whined, head dropping.

He started slow. Intentional. Torturous.

Then leaned over, mouth at your ear, one hand wrapping around your throat.

“Gonna fuck you so deep you’ll forget your name. Gonna fill you so full you’ll know who you belong to.”

Your moans spiraled into sobs. You were wrecked. Completely gone.

And still—he praised.

“Good girl. Taking me so well. Look at that pretty pussy swallowing me whole. Just for me.”

You lost track of time. Of the room. Of anything but the sound of your bodies slapping together and his voice dragging you through every layer of hell.

Then he flipped you. Straddled you.

Fucked you facing him. Eyes locked. One hand holding your face.

“I wanna see you come again,” he whispered. “Right here. Look at me while I ruin you.”

You nodded, tears spilling, body ready to shatter.

He slammed into you—hard, deep, ruthless.

“Now,” he ordered. “Now.”

And you screamed.

Came harder than you ever had. Back arched. Vision gone. World spinning.

He held you through it—kissed your forehead—whispered filth you couldn’t even process.

Then he followed you—coming with a groan so low and raw it vibrated through your bones.

He collapsed over you, breath tangled in your skin.

You lay there, chest heaving, both of you coated in sweat and bliss and something dangerous.

Then— A kiss to your temple.

—

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. It was dangerous.

Your bare skin still touched his, tangled in sheets that smelled like sex, sweat, and the kind of risk you weren’t supposed to crave. His fingers traced lazy lines down your spine, like he didn’t want to let go. Like he was still memorizing how you felt stretched around him.

Neither of you spoke.

Because what the fuck was there to say? He wasn’t your friend. He wasn’t just a stranger. He wasn’t even just some faceless number anymore.

He was him.

And he knew exactly who you were now too. You could feel it in the way he looked at you. Like you were something forbidden he couldn’t stop tasting.

You shifted, chest rising and falling against his, still breathless.

“I probably should go,” you murmured.

His hand flattened against your lower back.

“Should you?” he said.

But he didn’t move. Didn’t let go. Didn’t stop you either.

You pulled away slowly. Found your shirt in a messy heap on the floor, sliding it over your head without bothering to fix your hair. Your thighs still ached. The inside of them still sticky. You weren’t sure if you were shaking from pleasure or adrenaline or both.

“Is this the part where I pretend this didn’t happen?” you asked, voice light but not teasing.

He propped himself up on one elbow, eyes dragging across your figure.

“You don’t have to pretend.”

A beat passed.

Then another. And then—

“I probably should’ve stopped this,” he added, quieter this time.

“But you didn’t.”

You turned to face him fully now, shirt barely covering anything, mouth still swollen from the way he kissed you like he wanted to destroy you.

“No,” he said. “I didn’t.”

You stepped toward him, slow.

Deliberate.

He watched you like prey—like the only reason he hadn’t pounced again was because he wasn’t sure he’d be able to stop the second time.

“I’m not asking for anything,” you said, standing between his knees now. “I know what this is.”

His gaze flicked up.

“What is it?”

Your lips twitched.

“Stupid. Risky. Completely fucking insane.”

He smiled.

And fuck, that smile—you could feel it between your legs.

“But you want more,” he said.

It wasn’t a question.

“I do,” you breathed.

“So do I.”

You swallowed hard.

The air between you practically buzzed.

No confessions. No declarations.

Just need.

And beneath it all, the low, simmering thrill of getting away with something you shouldn’t.

“So what happens now?” you whispered.

His hand slid up your thigh. Not possessive—familiar.

“You wait for me to text you,” he said. “Then you come back. Let me fuck that fantasy out of you again.”

Your breath hitched.

“And if I don’t?”

He smirked.

“Then I’ll send you a reminder.”

His fingers dipped between your legs through your shirt, slow and cruel, and you nearly collapsed right there.

“I’ll see you again,” he added, voice rough against your throat now. “You know I will.”

You kissed him. Hard. Brief. Addictive.

Then slipped from his grip like a storm cloud—messy, dark, full of promise.

You didn’t say goodbye. You didn’t need to.

The second the door shut behind you, your phone lit up.

Unknown Number:

Next time, I want you riding my face before you even say hi.

Your smile was sinful. And your reply came fast.

You:

Next time’s too far away.

-~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Authors note: ‘Unknown number’ portrays one of my most vivid imaginations about how i wanna meet Chan 😩 we’re all delulu so dont look at me like that! But yeah, Chan is always lurking? Well i hope he lurks and finds this fic too 😏😏❤️❤️

Taglist: @tsunderelino @innieandsungielover @inlovewithstraykids @reignessance @jeonismm @sttnficrecs @herejusttemporary @krssliu @kenia4 @miilquetoast @thackery-blinks @leeminho-hall @suga-is-bae @butterflydemons @inejghafawifesblog @malunar28replies @minchanlimbo @mal-lunar-28 @breakmeofftbr @itvenorica124 @slut4junho @deepblueocean97 @thequibbie @yaorzu-blog @imagine-all-the-imagines @just-bria @mischievousleeknow @universeyuto @ifyxu @melanctton @thelostprincessofasgard @binniebb @sillylittlecat1 @darkwitchoferie @m-325 @headfirstfortoro @imseungminsgf @ihrtlix @vernorica123 @hwangjoanna @swordswallower2000 @niki007 @yxna-bliss @firelordtsuki @justwonder113 @mbioooo0000

[millermouth]

Joel Miller meeting your parents

this is just a stupid little thing from seeing this gif of him in this post ok thank you and goodnight. Been having writers block so if an idea can get this far on docs I’m posting it

|| fluff, little bit nsfw, daddy kink, old man joel, peepaw joel meets your parents, reader's dad is kind of a hard ass, I suck at flirty banter tbh, cracking up at some of the shit I put in here, enjoy ||

“Baby, I’m serious—” Joel said, but his hands betrayed him, gripping at your hips like he couldn’t help himself as you climbed into his lap. Your knees framed his thick thighs, still clad in worn denim, while his green plaid shirt had come untucked and bunched around his waist. A sliver of soft, tanned stomach peeked out as he leaned back against the bed frame.

“I’m serious too,” you murmured, voice thick with want as you pressed your mouth to his neck. Your fingers wove through his hair, tugging just enough to make him groan. “Need you, Joel. Been thinking about this all day.”

“We’re gonna be late if you keep this up,” he rasped, even as his head tipped back to give you more of his throat, groaning low when your teeth grazed the scruff along his jaw.

“Don’t care,” you breathed, lips brushing the shell of his ear. “They’ll be fine.”

You hiked your skirt higher, rocking down against him, already expecting to feel that familiar ache of him beneath you—but instead, your hips stilled at the softness of his lap. You blinked, confused, pulling back just enough to search his face. But Joel wouldn’t meet your eyes. His gaze darted everywhere else, over your shoulder, to the wall behind you, the damn nightstand—anywhere but you.

“…Joel?”

He still wouldn’t look at you. You moved your hands to his chest, flattening them against the flannel, feeling the heavy thudding of his heart beneath your fingers.

“You okay?” you asked, softer now, studying him. He looked nice tonight with his hair slicked back, beard freshly trimmed, and his shirt sleeves rolled up just enough to show off the veins in his forearms.

You cocked your head, more curious than concerned now as you really looked at him. “Are you…” You reached up, cupping his jaw, gently turning his face until his eyes finally met yours. “Joel Miller, are you nervous?”

He let out a long breath, his voice low and a little rough. “Course I’m nervous, baby.”

“Why?” you asked, easing back in his lap. You could still feel the warmth of his hands on your hips, thumbs sweeping slow, steady circles. It was more soothing for him than you now, grounding himself in the feeling of you.

“Any man’d be nervous meetin’ his girl’s parents for the first time,” he muttered, eyes flicking away again. Then, quieter, “Even if they weren’t his own damn age…”

You smiled softly, leaning in to press a kiss to his lips—gentle, unhurried. He let you, kissing you back with a quiet sigh, the kind that said he was trying not to get pulled under. You hovered close, noses brushing, before pulling back just enough to meet his eyes again.

“They’re gonna love you,” you whispered.

Joel gave a dry huff, eyes flicking away. “They’re gonna think I’m a damn pervert.”

“You are a pervert.”

His gaze snapped back to yours, narrowing just a bit, the muscles in his jaw tightening. You didn’t miss the way his brows dipped or how his eyes darkened, heat stirring just beneath the surface.

You bit back a grin, fingers tracing along the collar of his shirt. “It’s one of my favorite things about you.”

He rolled his eyes, still glaring up at you, and you let your shoulders drop, giving in. “Okay, so you’re older than me, who cares? You’re also respectful. And kind. You’re a good man. You even built my cat a window catio.”

That earned the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth, though he still wouldn’t look at you.

“And you didn’t have to say yes to any of this,” you added, quieter now. “But you did.”

He let out a breath, one hand tightening just slightly at your waist.

You leaned in, your nose brushing his. “And if I thought for one second they wouldn’t like you, I wouldn’t be dragging you into this.”

Finally, his eyes flicked to yours, unsure but searching.

You gave him a small smile. “You’ve got nothing to prove. Just… be yourself. Maybe with slightly less scowling.”

His lips twitched into even more of a smile then, and you kissed the corner of his mouth, lingering there a moment. “But if it helps…” you murmured, lips grazing his jaw now, “I can think of something to get your mind off it for a minute.”

Joel let out a slow breath, one he’d been holding in the entirety of your reassurances, his head falling back against your pillows again.

You smiled against his throat, lips curved with mischief. “I mean… if you really want me to stop…” you murmured, pressing your mouth to the spot just under his jaw. “I could get off your lap.”

Your hips shifted like you might, and his grip on you instantly tightened.

“But then…” you went on, voice all innocent and sinful at once, “what should I do about all this?”

You reached down, took his hand in yours, and guided it between your thighs, right over your panties, where the heat of you was unmistakable. His palm pressed flush against the soaked fabric, and you felt his breath catch sharp in his chest.

He hummed low in his throat, something dark and approving, and as your fingers slipped away, his own pressed harder. His touch was firm, possessive, like he’d been dying to do it but holding back until now.

“This’s all for me?” he finally muttered, voice rough as gravel. “Just from sittin’ in daddy’s lap, huh?”

You whimpered, rocking into his hand, desperate for more friction as you nodded. He gave it to you, slow circles with his fingers that had your breath stuttering, your thighs trembling around his. Even with the fabric between you, you could feel his rough calloused pads of his fingers perfectly against the heat of you.

“Joel,” you whined, barely even meaning to say it.

With a grunt, he shifted, and suddenly your back hit the mattress with a soft thud. He was over you in a flash, his body heavy and hot as he settled between your legs, looking at you like he was starving.

“You got me all worked up now,” he muttered, voice thick and low as his hands dragged your skirt higher, exposing more of your thighs. “Can’t let you walk out that door like this.”

He dipped his head to your neck, lips brushing over your pulse point before suckling gently. The scrape of his beard followed, rough and hot, as he worked his way lower, mouthing at the curve of your collarbone. Then down further, pushing your shirt up as he went, lifting it just enough to mouth at the soft skin of your chest.

“Let me take care of you,” he rasped, dragging his tongue over the top of your breast, nipping at it like he couldn’t help himself. “Let me take care of this little problem, huh, baby?”

You let out a breathless laugh, your fingers tangling in his hair. “Knew I’d get your mind off it, old man.”

His hands were everywhere now—palming your thighs, gripping your hips, pushing your panties aside just enough to slide his fingers back where they belonged in your wet, glistening entrance. His mouth returned to your skin, kissing and suckling until your back arched and your breath hitched in your throat.

Joel finally lifted his head, eyes dark and hungry as he hovered over you.

“You gonna be the one tellin’ your parents why we’re late?” he quirked his eyebrow with a mischievous glint in his eyes.

You smirked, hands sliding up his shoulders and onto his neck, tugging at the nape of his hair, “I’ll say I had to help you calm your nerves. Blow off some steam. Pretty sure I’m doing everyone a favor.”

Joel huffed a low laugh, shaking his head as he looked down at you. “That so?” he murmured, his smile pulling a little wider. “You’re real proud of yourself, huh?”

You grinned up at him, eyes sparkling. “You’re welcome.”

He chuckled again, the sound low and warm in his chest. But then something shifted, his gaze lingering a little longer, smile easing into something softer. His eyes flicked around your face like he was locking it into his memory. The mischief faded, replaced by something deeper, something heavier.

When he kissed you, it wasn’t playful anymore. It was deep and unhurried, messy and slow, full of everything that had led up to this night, where you were finally taking this next step, where things became even more real. One hand braced beside your head, the other deep inside you between your trembling legs, dragging you closer to the edge with every slow, deliberate roll of his hips.

Your breath caught. He pulled back just slightly, resting his forehead against yours.

“I love you,” he murmured, barely audible, like it had slipped out before he could stop it.

“Love you too, big guy,” you whispered, smiling as you pulled him back down to you.

The porch light flickered on above you as the sun dipped low, casting long shadows across the worn steps. Joel stood just off-center in front of the door, fingers loosely laced, jaw tense, shoulders drawn up like he expected to be called into a principal’s office.

You watched him for a moment, the way his eyes kept scanning the darkening yard, how his foot tapped once, then twice. He was wearing that soft brown light jacket over the green flannel, the one you loved so much. His hair was smoothed back now, but you could still see the faint tousle where your fingers had been tangled in it less than an hour ago. There was something boyish about how nervous he looked.

You stepped in close and laid a hand flat against his chest.

“Hey,” you said gently. “You’re okay.”

His eyes finally met yours, soft and searching, and you offered him a small smile as your fingers smoothed out the front of his shirt, pressing down a wrinkle that wasn’t really there.

“You’re gonna be fine, Joel. It’s just dinner.”

“Do they know that I’m–?” he mumbled.

You leaned up, brushed your lips over his, cutting him off. It wasn’t hungry or rushed, just soft, sweet, and steady. 

When you pulled back, your voice was quiet. “Relax. Like I said, they’re gonna love you.”

He exhaled through his nose, a little shaky, and gave a small nod. His hand came up to rest gently on your waist, thumb brushing over your hip like he needed the contact to stay grounded.

Then, behind you, the front door creaked open with a slow, familiar groan. You turned just enough to see the porch light glint off your dad’s glasses.

Joel straightened like he’d been caught doing something criminal. “Sir,” he greeted, stepping forward to shake your dad’s hand.

Your father was stone-faced, giving Joel a single nod as he returned the handshake. He stood in the doorway, quiet and watchful, eyes moving between the two of you without a word.

You swallowed, throat suddenly dry.

“Are they here!?” came a familiar voice from just inside. A second later, your mom popped her head around your dad’s shoulder, her hands clutching his arm. Her eyes lit up the second she saw you.

“There she is!” she squealed, practically barreling into you for a hug.

You let out a soft laugh as she wrapped her arms around you, warm and overwhelming in the best way. She pulled back just enough to hold you at arm’s length, eyes flicking over your face like she was making sure you were really here.

Then her gaze shifted.

“And you must be Joel!” she said brightly, stepping toward him with a big smile.

“Yes, ma’am,” he replied politely.

“Oh, don’t call me that,” she waved him off, offering her name instead.

You caught the twitch of a smile on Joel’s face as he repeated it, his voice soft with that drawl you knew so well.

She reached out and placed her hands on his arms, eyes roaming over him with zero subtlety. “Well, aren’t you handsome,” she said with a wink.

“Mom…” you groaned under your breath.

“Come inside, you two. Dinner’s nearly ready.”

Joel glanced at you, his jaw tight but his eyes softer now. There was still a flicker of nerves there, but beneath it was something quieter. Maybe even grateful. Like he couldn’t quite believe he got to be standing here, hand still warm from your dad’s handshake, your mom’s voice ringing with welcome, your hand just a breath away from his.

You offered him a small smile, one he returned without thinking, and the two of you stepped inside together.

You leaned up to kiss your dad’s cheek as you passed, and he returned it gently, one hand settling on your arm in a quiet, welcoming squeeze.

“So,” your dad’s voice carried from the head of the table, “what is it you do, Joe?”

“It’s Joel, dad.”

Your father raised his eyebrows like he hadn’t noticed the correction, even though he absolutely had.

“I own Miller Contractin’,” Joel said, calm and steady. “We build houses, do commercial work, though mostly stick to residential these days. All across the county.”

Your dad nodded, still not looking up from his plate, chewing a little harder than usual. “Miller Contracting… That just you, or you got a crew?”

“My brother and I are partners, we got a good crew of guys.”

“Hmm.”

A long sip of iced tea later, your dad’s voice pipes up again: “What kinda permits you gotta pull for that subdivision on the west side?”

You blinked. “Dad—”

Joel didn’t miss a beat. “Depends on the parcel. New builds gotta go through the county first, then the town for inspection sign-off. If it’s remodels or additions, we skip the land survey.”

Your dad finally looked up, eyes narrowing. “And your license number?”

Joel raised an eyebrow right back. “You wanna write it down?”

That earned a chuckle from your brother across the table, who quickly masked it with a bite of roll.

Your dad gave a grunt that could’ve meant anything, then pointed his fork across the table. “You hunt?”

“Not in a while,” Joel said. “Used to. Mostly just keep a few rifles around now, in case somethin’ needs shootin’.”

Another nod.

Then, after a long pause, your dad took another bite and mumbled around his food, “Built that deck out back myself, y’know. Back in ’98.”

“Yeah, when I was 8 months pregnant and bout ready to burst from stress,” your mom quipped with a little scoff.

Joel, bless him, didn’t so much as smirk. “It’s a good build. Still holdin’ up well.”

Your dad’s fork hovered in the air, then he gave a small, barely-there nod like Joel had just passed some pop quiz of his.

You finally started to relax until he opened his mouth again.

“One last question, Joel,” your dad said casually, sawing through his steak.

Joel’s shoulders tensed slightly. “Yessir.”

Your dad glanced across the table. His eyes flicked to your neck, then to Joel. Then back to you. With his knife, he gestured loosely toward your collarbone.

“That a hickey on my daughter’s neck?”

You nearly choked on your water.

Joel froze, fork halfway to his mouth.

There was a beat of stunned silence before your mom smacked your dad’s arm.

“David.”

“What?” he asked, feigning innocence, still chewing.

Joel cleared his throat. Loudly. “I—uh—must be… a-a nasty bug bite or somethin’.”

You stared down at your plate, cheeks on fire, absolutely refusing to make eye contact with anyone.

Your dad just grinned around another bite, like he’d just scored the winning point in a game no one else knew they were playing.

Later, the two of you ended up shoulder to shoulder in the kitchen, sleeves rolled up, trading off dishes and bumping hips as you loaded the dishwasher and tackled the giant roasting pan your mom had insisted was “vintage, not ancient.”

Joel rinsed a plate, set it in the rack, and glanced at you with a sly grin. “You always this bossy with kitchen duty?”

You shot him a look over your shoulder. “I’m not bossy. I’m efficient.”

“You barely let me step up to the sink before you were shovin’ the dryin’ rag in my hand.”

“I did not.”

“Reckon ya did, sweetheart. And to think I’m just tryna be a good guest.”

You laughed, nudging him with your hip. “I just know where our strengths and weaknesses lie is all.”

“Uh-huh.” He held up the rag and dish in hand dramatically. “Well, I’m puttin’ it on my résumé.”

“Oh yeah? Skills: contracting, firearm safety, surviving dad interrogation, and above-average dish drying?”

He turned to you, eyes playful. “You forgot exceptional boyfriend.”

You pretended to think about it. “Jury’s still out.”

He gave you a mock glare. “Keep talkin’ like that and you’re gettin’ another one of them hickeys on your neck. Right on the other side. Bet your dad would love that.”

Your eyes widened. “Joel.”

“Symmetry,” he said with a shrug, like it was the most reasonable explanation in the world.

Joel stepped back from the counter, towel still in hand, and playfully flicked it toward your backside. You squealed, swatting at him with your sudsy hand, and nearly bumped into the oven.

You were both laughing when the kitchen door creaked open and your dad leaned inside.

Joel straightened like he’d been caught red-handed again, shoulders stiff.

Your dad gave a long look at the two of you, then cleared his throat. “Joel.”

“Yes, sir?”

“You drink beer?”

Joel blinked. “Sure do.”

Your dad nodded once, like he’d already made the decision before asking. “Come out on the porch. I got a few in the cooler.”

Joel shot you a quick look, like he was trying to read if this was good or bad.

You just smiled and mouthed, go.

He followed your dad out, wiping his hands on a dish towel as he went. You watched him go with a little flutter in your chest.

“Oh,” a sudden thought crossed your mind, “daddy?”

Both men turned.

“Yeah, baby?”

“Yes, honey?”

The silence that followed was crippling.

Joel went stiff as a board, like he’d just realized he’d stepped off a cliff and was waiting for gravity to finish the job. His mouth opened, then closed, then opened again. He looked between you and your dad with eyes wide as saucers, face draining of color.

Your dad was staring at him. Hard.

You turned crimson, choking on air. “I—I was just... I was gonna ask if you wanted some—Mom said there was pie for dessert. Or maybe it was cheesecake? I don’t–I don’t know. Actually, let me go ask her.”

You slapped the sponge onto the counter and bolted, eyes on the floor, muttering something that might’ve been English as you fled the kitchen.

You sat curled into the corner of the couch, a slice of pie balanced on your lap and your second glass of wine halfway gone. The living room was dim, lit mostly by the lamp beside your mom’s armchair and the soft flicker from the TV, playing some home renovation show you weren’t really watching.

Your mom leaned back, swirling her wine. “So… he’s cute.”

You smiled behind your fork. “Mmhm.”

“And polite. Little stiff.”

“He was a little nervous. Bein’...” you shrugged, “You know, same age as you guys and all.”

Your mom raised her eyebrows, taking another sip from her glass. “Please. Age is but a number these days. The amount of older men I dated when I was your age…” she chuckled to herself at the memories.

You snorted, shaking your head as you scooped another bite of pie, the quiet of the house settling in around you like a blanket.

She tilted her head, watching you with that knowing, mom-look. “He seems like a good man, honey.”

“He is,” you said softly, nodding.

Your mom’s gaze softened as she looked at you over the rim of her glass. “I see the way he looks at you. The way you two laugh together. It's nice… seeing you like this.”

You felt your smile pull a little deeper, the warmth in your cheeks not just from the wine. “Yeah,” you murmured. “It feels nice, too.”

The moment settled between you, quiet and soft until your thoughts drifted to the porch. You tried not to let your mind wander, but it crept in anyway. Whatever conversation Joel and your dad were having out there… you hadn’t wanted to hear it. After the fiasco in the kitchen you just hoped he was alive. But then you heard the back door open, the low rumble of Joel’s voice, and your dad laughing about something involving backyard irrigation, you knew whatever happened, it hadn’t gone badly.

Joel and your dad stepped into the living room, their voices trailing off mid-conversation.

“—and I told him if he tried to DIY those stone steps without checking the grading, he was gonna bust his ass in the first rain.”

Your dad huffed a laugh. “You’re not wrong. Maybe I’ll call your company in spring.”

Joel just gave a polite smile, his eyes finding yours immediately.

Your mom rose to her feet and crossed the room to kiss him on the cheek, then turned to wrap her arms around you. “Thank you for comin’ tonight. Come back anytime, you two.”

You smiled, hugging her tight. “We will.”

“You picked a good one,” she whispered in your ear, giving you a little squeeze before she headed toward the hallway, bidding you goodnight.

You turned just in time to see Joel and your dad shaking hands. It looked firm, respectful, less like a test this time and more like an understanding.

You crossed the room and kissed your father goodbye, and while he didn’t say much, his hand on your back lingered for a second longer than usual. That was about as close as you were gonna get to a blessing.

You and Joel walked out to the truck in the cool night air, his hand brushing your lower back, just enough to feel steady.

Once inside the cab, he pulled the door shut and let out a massive exhale, sinking into the seat like he’d just survived a firefight.

You grinned at him, cheeks warm from the wine and your heart even warmer.

“You did good tonight,” you said softly.

He looked at you like you’d just handed him a ribbon at the county fair. “Yeah?”

You nodded. “Really good. You survived my dad. Didn’t insult his deck. Kept it very buttoned up.”

He huffed a laugh, “It is a nice deck.”

You leaned your head back against the seat, looking at him through your lashes. “Kinda hot, actually. Watching you all nervous and respectable.”

He gave you a look. “Few times in there I wasn’t so sure. Thought he might shoot me right then and there when he asked about your neck. And don’t get me started on your stunt in the kitchen.”

You groaned and covered your face. “I didn’t meaaaan it.”

Joel chuckled, the sound soft and low as he reached over and gently tugged your hand away from your face. “Still nearly gave both me and your old man a heart attack.” 

You grinned at him as he kissed your hand gently, one knuckle at a time, “But you’re my old man.”

He let out a breath, shaking his head as his smile tugged wide and helpless. “Jesus,” he muttered. “You’re gonna be the death of me, darlin’.”

You leaned in, bumping your nose against his. “Worth it.”

[saintrosalyn]

JAILBIRD

Ghost becomes pen pals with an inmate before deciding that he wants to adopt his little jailbird.

Word count: 4.1k

Tw: inmate reader, reader is kept as vauge as possible but is implied to be younger than Ghost, violence, stalking, ghost is a perv, p in v, oral (f! Receiving), creampie, spanking (once), orgasm denial if you squint, unprotected sex, NOT edited we die like men.

Edited to Add: Part Two is posted :)

Notes: Baby’s first fanfic, please be gentle. Let me know if I missed any trigger warnings or if you want to see more! I have an idea for a second part but I don’t know if anyone wants it, right now it’s tucked away safely in my drafts. Enjoy! :)

P.S. I’m thinking about making an ao3 account and publishing an edited version of this on there. I’ll link it if I do! I’ve already spent too much time procrastinating finals but christmas break is around the corner so who knows.

The letter came with the top serrated, already opened, as all your letters came. You mostly ignored them. There were a couple of programs that allowed people to become pen pals with prisoners but you’d been there long enough to know what they often contained. 

Many of the women milked poor losers on the outside. Money given and sent. Promises of butterfly kisses and blowjobs whispered over the phone. Exchanges. Some were even able to sweet talk their honeys into giving bribes. Money passed into hands of guards, currency that was then exchanged for cigarettes, which were much more valuable on the inside than the bills used on the outside.

You don’t know why you read this letter. It certainly wasn’t the penmanship, a scrawled handwriting that lay between cursive and print. Maybe it was the blue pen, you’d recognize a Bic anywhere, or maybe it was the fact that it smelled a bit like top-shelf liquor. 

It was rather blunt. But not in an obscene way. Simple and straight to the point as if constrained by an unknown word count. It wasn’t memorable, but what else was there to do? Pace your cell back and forth and wait for zoochosis to settle further in your bones. Close your eyes and remember what freedom tasted like before it dissolved in your mouth.

The pen they gave you was cheap, the paper even cheaper, but you were used to making things work. Your reply was shorter than his, than Simon’s, but it got the job done. If he wanted to write back he would. If he didn’t, well, the new prison guard was starting to get rather handsy with you. The time will pass no matter what.

___

His replies came in strange patterns. Some weeks you’d get eight in a week, other times you wouldn’t hear from him for a few months. It took a year for the first phone call of which lasted less than a minute and consisted mostly of him grunting on the other end and a schlick sound you pretended not to notice. It was his fourth phone call that he finally said a few words in a voice so low it made the phone buzz against your ear, tickling like a lover's breath. Eventually, you had some semblance of conversations, even if they were interrupted by a recorded voice warning you of the time you had left. 

He told you he was a soldier and at first, you planned on cutting the whole penpal idea off. Even before you got arrested you hated bootlickers more than anything. But Simon grew on you, and your friends all suggested you get in his good graces to see if he could pull some strings. You would’ve felt guilty if he was anything other than glorified government property. Both of you were.

The first thing he gave you was a book, The Yellow Wallpaper, which was thicker than you remembered from the time you read it in school. It was only when you cracked open the spine did you find a pack of cigarettes inside, the pages carved out so your real present could be placed inside. You couldn’t help the smile that split your lips as you pressed one between your lips, not noticing the tiny S carved into it.

You thank him for the gift by whispering his name into the phone. A mantra, a prayer, it didn’t matter as long as you kept your voice breathy. He promises to get you more and you learn not to refuse him. At one point, you notice that little robotic voice doesn’t time you anymore. The guard who couldn’t keep his hands to himself was replaced with a woman, hair pulled back into a military-style bun. And you got an extra cookie with your meals.

It took a year for him to visit. You knew it was coming eventually, men are only fine with their imagination for so long before they crave something tangible. Hell, even you were curious about the man who wanted to sink his teeth into you. It almost felt like getting ready for a date. Butterflies dropped like lead in your stomach as you tried to tidy your appearance as much as you could. You smelled, but there wasn’t much you could do about that. The whole damn prison smelled like a county fair bathroom. The lack of air conditioning in the heat of summer just added a sweet BO tinge. 

The first thing you noticed about Simon was his size. You had never met a man as big as he was. The next was the thick scar tissue that marred his face. Though, even without the scars you would be hesitant to ever call him handsome.

Intimidating.

That was what came to mind staring at the thick cords of muscle that covered his arms and the broadness of his shoulders wasn’t just genetics. And he just stared at you. You glanced at the phone that connected to his on the other side of the glass and back at him but decided against it.

You offered him a small smile and an awkward wave. It unnerved you. The focus and attention pinned you in place. Normally you kinned yourself to a tiger you saw at a zoo when you were a child. One that paced back and forth. Back and forth. Back and forth. A habit you understood all too well. But sitting in front of your pen pal you realized you were rather off. 

Simon was the tiger and you were the bird that caught his attention.

It took far too long for the guard to come and collect you. For once you were grateful to retreat back to your cell, so much so that in your retreat you failed to notice the nod your warden gave Simon.

___

After that Simon met with you in person as often as was allowed. He never said anything and neither did you. Eventually, the novelty of him wore off. Humans were rather adaptable creatures, and you could only be scared of the man for so long before your body adjusted to him. Despite your silence, Simon didn’t appear displeased with you. In fact, it was almost the opposite of it. More gifts arrived.

A pillow, high-end shampoo, a toothbrush (that you had a strange suspicion was used before being given to you), nail polish, and more cigarettes. Some of the women were jealous of the attention given to you, others tried to get with you to share your bounty. Somehow you dodged most of the conflict. But you can only run so long while trapped with so many women.

When you showed up to your meeting sporting a bruised cheek and split lip the air quickly changed. Before you thought Simon looked like a predator. 

You were wrong.

Fear coursed through your veins and you recognized the look in his eyes. Every woman in the damn place knows what a hunger for violence looked like. Slowly he reached out an arm, the sleeve of his hoodie riding up slightly showing off tattoos, before grabbing the phone and pressing it to his ear. With a shaking hand, you did the same.

“Bird.” His voice was somehow deeper in real life than over the phone.

“You should see the other guy.”

His lips twitched.

There was something uncanny about his eyes. They weren’t brown, they were black. Obsidian. You realized that before, the first time you met him, he wasn’t trying to scare you. Though, you were pretty sure it wasn’t directed at you.

“Just a little spat is all Simon. Everything sorted itself out.”

All over a bottle of nail polish. Tempers run short in prison. You spend most of your days in a cell, and what little free time you get surrounded by the same insufferable bitches, it’s a mystery there isn’t more violence. For the most part, things were settled with words. The more physical an inmate gets the more time spent in your cell. There were some weeks where you spent twenty-three hours a day in that little room. 

Simon let out a sigh as if dealing with you was the most insufferable part of his day.

“Did ye’ get medical attention a’ least?”

You nodded your head.

He gave a grunt.

That seemed to be his preferred method of communication with you. Caveman grunts and growls, the occasional moan over the phone he couldn’t hold back. You figured it had something to do with his job. He was quite tight-lipped about it, but you gathered he has co-workers (his squad? Platoon? What was the proper lingo?). Despite this, you were under the impression he spent the majority of his time alone. He always seemed more primal after those month-long stints of silence.

You always wondered how you would feel if he never contacted you again. Went out and didn’t come back. Would you assume he was dead? That he moved on to prettier things that aren’t locked away? Would it make a difference to you? 

No. It wouldn’t.

Even now you got letters upon letters from other men. Though none were as giving as Simon was.

It was back to silence and staring contests that you were used to. The both of you slipping into a familiarity. He never put the phone back. Even when your warden came and escorted you back. You didn’t glance back at him. 

Tucked away in your cell you didn’t get to watch Simon slowly rise out of his seat, chair creaking from the shifting of his weight. You didn’t see Simon lurk in the back as the inmates met with their loved ones on the out. Didn’t see him take notice of a particular girls with nails painted the same shade as his gift to you. The same shade as the tip of his cock.

___

The girl was transferred. For a singular moment, you thought Simon had something to do with it. Then laughed at the idea. Simon may be in the military, but you highly doubted he had anything to do with the bitch who got transferred. At least you got your nail polish back. It was a strange shade, and the idea of a man as big as Simon standing in an isle trying to pick out a shade made you chuckle, it was the thought that counted.

Time marched on. Penpals came and went but Simon stayed the consistent part in your life. 

Eventually, the possibility of parole was on the horizon. 

Freedom. 

So close you could practically taste it.

Unfortunately, that meant a laundry list of to-do items. Court hearings, lawyers bankrolled by Simon, arranging for transportation and housing. Simon handled most of it. By now, the lingering guilt of using your soldier fiance had long left you. He seemed like the kind of man who needed to learn lessons the hard way, and entering a relationship with a felon was a lesson most didn’t need to learn. Still, he had been putting in quite a hard amount of work. He deserved a treat.

And after years of forced celibacy, you needed it bad.

The two of you would enjoy each other for a week or two. Simon would realize he made a mistake moving you in. He would kick you out. You’d pawn the ring he’d give you and use the money as a cushion as you landed, getting back on your feet. The two of you would go your separate ways and never see each other again.

Being in prison taught you a lot of things. Despite everything, patience wasn’t one of those lessons. The day you were gaining your freedom passed was the slowest part of your life. The checking, double checking, retrieving your stuff, checking again, until finally,

Finally,

You were outside. You were outside in something other than a uniform that stunk of sweat, there were no handcuffs. Anxiety crept everywhere. You wanted to get as far away from the prison as you could, if you breathed wrong a warden would drag you back. A pair of arms snatched you.

You looked up and couldn’t help but laugh, pressing your lips against his scarred ones.

“Fucking Christ your tall.”

He chuckled against your lips before taking them again, hands digging near painfully into your ass. The two of you somehow managed to walk back to his car peeling off one another before Simon peeled away, hand clutching the fat of your thighs as he drove.

“Never pictured you as a reckless driver.” You giggled.

The adrenaline and giddiness of being free hadn’t worn off yet. If anything it seemed to slowly be morphing into a different beast entirely. You pressed your lips against his bicep causing him to groan. You glanced up at him, watching as his jaw clenched weaving in and out of traffic in a way that was certainly not legal. You would’ve been worried about being pulled over if he wasn’t driving a military vehicle. They answered to a different police, or so he told you.

Eventually, he pulled into the yard of a house with an honest-to-God white picket fence. You smiled as you got out, curiosity creeping in about what his house was like. Simon opened the door for you, which would probably should’ve made you swoon at his gentleman-like behavior, but truthfully it was how he hauled you out of the card and dragged you inside that got your heart racing. 

Impatient.

The door barely closed before his body was pressed against yours and his lips were pressed against your jugular. One of his rough hands slipped up your shirt, grunting when he found a clear path to your tits instead of meeting the edge of a bra. The other dipped into the waistband of your pants, running over your clothed cunt, no doubt feeling the wet spot against your underwear. Your hands slid over his arms, squeezing at the muscle, before slowly sliding them up and up, going to the back of his neck, a hand threading through his short hair the other cupping his face to kiss yours. 

A large thumb found your clit, only the thin cotton stopped him from rubbing directly against it. He pressed down hard on it, causing your breath to catch in your throat, his thumb moving down your slit. The seam of your mouth parted in a moan and he used that to stick his tongue down your throat. 

The kiss was obscenely wet, beastly as his spit passed from his mouth into yours. Before prison, you would’ve pulled away with a grimace. Too much tongue, too much teeth, too much. But your whole body was on fire, years of pent-up orgasms made you desperate for it all. For someone to press against you, to be inside you.

Simon was oh-so-convenient. 

You tried to pull away, lungs burning enough to convince you that air was in fact a need, but the door stopped you. Pressed between it and Simon you had no escape. You whimpered against his mouth, again and again until he finally got the hint and pulled away, a string of spit connecting your mouths as if it too was reluctant to pull away from you.

“Bedroom?” You panted, though if he took you here against the door you would die happy.

Simon threw you over his shoulder and took his stairs two at a time before tossing you on his bed making you laugh. The caveman and his prize. Simon took the moment of being away from you to pull at the collar of his shirt. You watched in appreciation as it lifted higher and higher until it was discarded on his carpet. 

His body was marred in scar tissue, muscle, and a layer of fat that made for a solid fine specimen of the male species. His pants were discarded next, and either he pulled his underwear down with them or he just wasn’t wearing any to begin with. You didn’t have much time to ponder that thought distracted by his hard cock.

Jesus Christ.

Big was an understatement, monster was the word that popped into your mind. It crossed the territory between delicious into scary. Large and thicker than you thought possible. You swallowed and for a second hoped he would forget about the blowjob you promised him after he gave you a pillow. 

“Yer’ wearin’ too many clothes Birdie.” 

Quickly, though not as quickly as Simon was, you wiggled out of your pants, shrugged off your shirt throwing it in the same pile as his clothes. He stepped closer to you, one large hand grabbing your ankle before retching you towards him.

He leaned down, mouthing at your bare tits, slobbering over them. The soft press of his tongue flicked over your nipple before he moved to the other and grazed his teeth over it. His hands were everywhere. He was everywhere. Impossibly big and pressed against you everywhere. Until all your senses were filled with him. As if Simon was the only thing that mattered in the world.

The artificial sun in your glass cage.

His mouth moved lower, nipping at your skin before he moved between your legs. He settled his body in between them, the calloused palm of his hands pressing your legs further and further apart until the stretch burned in the muscles where your legs met your pelvis. Quickly the pain faded into the background as he pressed a kiss against your bare clit, before taking it in his mouth and sucking. You felt the rough pad of his fingertips press against your hole rubbing against it but never quite dipping inside. Again and again, he moved it against you but never in you. 

It was maddening.

You tilted your pelvis against his mouth, trying to coax his fingers into your welcoming body. He growled against your clit, removing his mouth causing you to whine. A sharp sting met your ass cheek and you yelped.

He spanked you.

“Behave.”

You never took the man to be hungry for anything other than missionary, but it seemed he had learned a few tricks over the years. He did have a few on you, you were sure of it. Your thoughts leaked out of your ears as he moved back up, slotting his hips in between your legs. Liquid lust ran through your veins at the sight of him rubbing his dick against your mound, a mess of your slick and his pre dragging along your pussy and up to your belly button. Your poor hole clenching around nothing at the image of how deep he was about to be in you.

You took a deep breath, mesmerized as he pressed the tip against your entrance, catching it before pressing himself inside. He went slowly, and you couldn’t help the moan that left you as he finally began to sink home. Throwing your head back you closed your eyes as he stretched your body out.

You weren’t a virgin before you were locked away, but years of celibacy made you feel born again. Hell, with the size Simon was even if you had fucked him before he would’ve made you feel virginal with the way he was splitting you open.

When you opened them again you caught his gaze, he stared at you watching your expression pinch as he gave small thrusts, working the last of him inside you. When his balls pressed against your ass you let out a shaky breath. You had passed your limit two inches ago but somehow Simon had managed to coax your sweet pussy to take the last of him inside. The pain of him had taken you away from the edge of an orgasm he was working you towards, but when his hand found your clit again you knew you weren’t going to last long.

If his shaky breaths were anything to go by Simon wasn’t going to last long either. 

He kissed you again, this time it was softer. Sweeter. Made your stomach turn in a moment of guilt. It was replaced when he drew out of you, slowly letting you feel inch after inch leave your body, before slamming back in.

He moved again against you. And again. Building up a punishing rhythm. You couldn’t help the small ah ah ah’s that left your lips as he rutted in you. Your hips pushed against his, working with him as you both chased your highs. 

His hand never left your clit, as if glued to it working in tight fast circles. His other hand traveled along your body as if he couldn’t get enough of you. Squeezing at your tits so hard you thought it might bruise, running up your bare skin, constantly moving and feeling. As if he couldn’t believe that you were real. That you were out of your cage and underneath him panting his name in his ear instead of against the end of a phone. 

Your own hands wandered. Moving over his arms, God’s gift to you, his chest. But mostly they moved down his back, feeling his muscles move and contract under your hands. Before you left you would convince him to put a mirror over his bed, so you could watch his shoulders shift and move as he thrust inside you.

It was too much. The feel of Simon, the stimulation on your clit, the thick cock pistoning like a machine inside you, pressure built and built inside you. Your nails dug into his back, dragging down as he pushed you off that ledge.

Simon’s thrusts stuttered as he felt your walls fluttering around him, suckling at his cock, coaxing him. He came with a groan soon after you, painting your walls with thick globs of his cum.

You panted as he rested against you, letting his cock soften inside you as you ran your nails over the nape of his neck and caressed his short hair. It was oddly soft, comforting to run your hands over.

Simon began to untangle himself from you, slowly as if reluctant to part from your embrace. He moved to what you now realize was the on-suite connected to his bedroom. You could feel his cum start to drip out of your cunt and down your asshole, shifting at the uncomfortable feeling. You couldn’t find the energy yet to move, not even sure if your legs could support you right now. Simon came back to you, wash-cloth in hand, and began wiping up the mess he made.

“We’ll have to get a Plan B tomorrow.” You murmured as he crawled back into bed next to you.

Simon didn’t say anything, but he had always been a quiet man. He maneuvered the both of you until you rested under the covers, your hand running along his bare chest. Tracing his happy trail before moving back up, not ready to go again.

The adrenaline from before had worn off, leaving you suddenly exhausted. Sated and free you dozed off against him.

When you woke up again it was darker outside. Not yet the full black of night but rather the soft blue that came after the sun had only just dipped out of sight. Simon wasn’t in bed next to you. You rolled over with a sigh, sitting up and smoothing your hair. Thirsty you threw the covers off your body and padded across out of his room entering into a small hallway. There was a door directly across his room and with a shrug, you went into it. 

It wasn’t snooping if you lived here now too. Even if you were only going to stay for a little bit.

The handle turned easily but the room was darker than you expected, no windows to let in any natural light. Your hands patted at the wall until you found the edge of a light switch, with a click the room was bathed in a soft glow.

Your breath hitched.

The room was bare except for a small desk and chair, the walls were covered in photos. Photos of you. Old photos, from before your prison stint. Mugshots. But what made your skin crawl were photos of you in your cell. You sprawled out on your uncomfortable cot. You sitting cross-legged across from your cellmate. Images of you in the cafeteria. Images of you in the yard. 

You took a step back, then another, and another.

You flicked the light back off and slowly closed the door. You took a shuddering breath and yelped when you felt a chest pressed against yours. 

Simon’s hands dug into your hips, pulling you tight against him.

“You look like you’ve seen a Ghost, Birdie.”

Poor little bird, trading one cage for another.

___

Part Two