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this-is-tiny-mia · 4 months ago

Text

Sorry, wrong number (H.S. One Shot)

General Masterlist Summary: A wrong-number text leads to an unexpected connection between a you and a stranger. What starts as a playful exchange quickly becomes the highlight of their days, leaving you curious about the man behind the messages. A/n: I don't really know what i'm doing here, i just got inspired and i was bored, i'm clearly not a professional fanfic writer, but i hope at least someone enjoys it. (ALSO ENGLISH IT'S NOT MY FIRST LANGUAGE SO BARE WITH ME WITH GRAMMAR AND STUFF) Word count: 4.1k

Warnings: Not really, use of y/n, maybe slow burn, cliff hanger cause i don't know if it's good enough to continue it.

Friday, January 10th

"Hi! This is Y/N. I already sent the files you asked for last Friday, but I didn’t get any reply. Could you please confirm you received them? Have a nice day!"

…

Tuesday, January 14th

"Hi! This is Y/N again. I know you might be busy, but I just wanted to confirm if the files were okay. We also still have the last payment pending, so whenever you can, it’s fine! Have a nice day!"

Maybe it was too soon to think the client had run off with the files and didn’t want to pay, or maybe he was in trouble? Maybe he got mad that I texted his personal phone number? Anyway, it wasn’t unusual for clients to disappear, but this time, you were really looking forward to that last payment.

Your mom’s birthday was coming up, and you wanted to buy something nice for her for the first time—maybe even outdo your sister and prove you could buy her something special too. You were eager about it but tried to brush it off and focus on other clients who actually responded to emails and texts.

Then, your phone buzzed.

"Hey, I wasn’t going to answer these texts, but I’m pretty sure someone gave you the wrong number. I’m not waiting for files—sorry!"

"That explains a lot," you said to yourself, staring at your phone. Embarrassment crept in as you double-checked the number the client had sent in an earlier email. And there it was—one single digit off from the number you’d been texting. Still, why wasn’t the client answering their email?

Regardless, you had texted the wrong number and even asked for the final payment.

"Oh my god, I’m really, really sorry! I just double-checked, and yes, I made a mistake with the number. Again, I’m so sorry to bother you."

"It’s fine! Hope you find the real client and get your payment."

You facepalmed in your office and chuckled at yourself. It was embarrassing to think about the stranger receiving your out-of-context texts. Maybe they were busy too, and you’d just interrupted their day. Or maybe you were overthinking it.

After searching for that email again, you dialed the correct number carefully, double-checking each digit. Then you sent another message:

"Hi! This is Y/N. I already sent the files last week, but I didn’t get any reply. Could you please confirm you received them? Have a nice day!"

Minutes later, the client responded. He apologized for falling behind on things, said he’d been busy, but confirmed he had received the files and planned to make the payment the next day.

Thank God.

You were always busy—navigating the challenges of freelancing and the whole "being your own boss" thing. Sometimes it meant being not just the social media marketer but also the accountant, admin team, planner, and much more.

"Everything alright?" Gwen asked, chuckling as she glanced at you. "You look a little stressed."

"It’s been a couple of stressful days," you replied. "But I’ll survive. You know I always do," you added with a smile.

Gwen was the fashion designer you shared the downtown office with. She was more experienced than you and ran her signature shop below the office, filled with beautiful, unique pieces. Thankfully, she was always a helping hand when you got stuck with an Excel sheet or needed advice on balancing work and life.

The next day was more of the same. Mid-month meant analyzing how the brands were doing—were they selling? Were they stagnant? Was there a new trend going viral? Or an upcoming holiday to leverage?

Your phone buzzed, interrupting your focus.

"I hope this isn’t weird, but did you get the right number? Or the payment? It felt like I was left on a cliffhanger."

You smiled at the text from the stranger who had received your initial messages.

"Not weird at all! I’d be curious too. And yes, I got the right number, and I think he’s paying me today!"

"Well, I’m glad! I wasn’t going to sleep without knowing how it ended."

"I’ll update you as soon as the payment comes through! lol."

Maybe it was odd to have a conversation with a stranger, but they didn’t even know who you were, so what did it matter?

"Please do. 🙏🏻"

You thought of that viral story about the grandma who accidentally texted a stranger and ended up inviting him to Thanksgiving dinner. But in your boring life, nothing like that could ever happen. You weren’t particularly chatty or extroverted in real life, but since they didn’t know who you were, what was the harm?

——-

"Update: The payment came in!!"

"Thank God! I’m happy for you, and it’s not even my money."

"Well, thank you for answering. Otherwise, I’d still be texting you about my lost payment."

"My pleasure. Is it okay if I ask what your job is? I’m curious—it’s my first time being a wrong number!"

"Is it weird to be texting a stranger who randomly asks about my job?" you asked Gwen, showing her the texts.

"What does that even mean?" she asked, confused.

"Have a look at this," you said, sliding your phone over. Gwen read the texts and smirked.

"He doesn’t even know who you are. He knows your name, but how many Y/Ns are there in London?" she said, trying to calm your overdramatic thoughts. "Or you could make up a funny, dramatic life and have fun for a few days—tell him you work in a strip club!"

You laughed softly but were tempted by the idea of harmless fun. What real danger could come from simple texts? He was the one who started asking questions, after all.

"I’m a digital marketing specialist."

"Sounds cool. I could never."

"What do you do, then?" you asked boldly.

"I own a small brand."

He technically wasn’t lying, but it wasn’t the full truth either. Maybe it was too soon to reveal his real identity. If he even had contemplated that.

"'I own a small brand?' That’s it?" you muttered to yourself. Your life wasn’t that boring after all—or maybe it was, compared to his.

Recently, you've been haunted by questions about your career. Did you even love marketing? No. Did you know what you wanted to do? No.

Your phone buzzed again, pulling you out of your thoughts.

"My name is Harry, by the way. Seems fair to tell you since I know yours."

"Nice to meet you, Harry."

You smiled at your phone, a soft, involuntary expression that you quickly brushed off. It wasn’t like you were getting attached or anything; it was just amusing. A stranger texting you was definitely the most interesting thing to happen that week. But after that, it went quiet. The conversation stopped, and you figured it was just one of those random, fleeting interactions life throws at you. Something to laugh about later with friends.

Two days later, though, your phone buzzed again. You assumed it was your mom or a group chat notification—certainly not Harry

“How did the week end for you? Any other wrong numbers?”

You blinked at the screen, taken by surprise but also oddly pleased.

“It ended pretty busy, but thank God it’s over. And no, no more wrong numbers, lol.”

“So, any weekend plans?”

How was it that this stranger, Harry, was better at keeping a conversation going than any guy you'd actually dated? It felt natural, like he genuinely wanted to talk to you, and for once, you didn’t feel like retreating into vague one-word answers.

“Nope, a bit of a boring life here. You?”

“Yeah, same.”

Okay, that was definitely a lie.

Your life was painfully average. You worked to pay rent, paid rent to keep a roof over your head, and that was it. Sure, there were good days and bad ones, clients who made you want to tear your hair out, and others who gave you glowing feedback that kept you going. But lately, when anyone asked, “What’s new?” or “What have you been up to?” your mind went blank. The truth felt too dull to say out loud.

Your love life? Also on pause. You’d had a long-term boyfriend once, but when his ambitions veered wildly away from your own, it fell apart. You didn’t hold any hard feelings, but dating apps weren’t exactly your thing, either. Deep down, you clung to the hope that someone would randomly appear in your life, the way they do in rom-coms—chocolates, flowers, and all. But you’d stopped expecting it a long time ago.

So why was a stranger, with nothing more than a name and a few texts, suddenly the most exciting part of your week? Maybe it was the mystery. Or maybe, just maybe, it was because it made you feel like you’d stepped out of your routine.

“Is it weird that I just kept on texting you? I feel like it is,” he texted again.

“A bit, but I’m enjoying it so far. It’s kind of fun, actually.”

“Ok, thank God we’re both weirdos, then. Are you based in London?”

And just like that, the fun felt like it came to a halt. He was asking for your location now. Sure, London was massive—1,572 km² of sprawling city—but your anxiety immediately perked up. Was this crossing a line? Did he want to track you down or something?

But then, the little mischievous devil on your shoulder chimed in. Relax, it’s harmless fun. It’s not like you two are actually going to meet, or like he’s going to know your exact address just because you said you lived in London.

The devil wins.

“Yes, I’m in London. You?”

Your turn, Harry man, you thought. And then, as if on cue, your brain jumped onto a rollercoaster of wild thoughts. Wait, what if he’s a 50-year-old? Or worse—a 15-year-old hormonal teen?! You shook your head. No, no, he’s a brand owner, you reminded yourself.

Was this fear of the unknown creeping in? Or... was it just pure curiosity?

“Yes, around Notting Hill.”

You stared at your phone, a bit shocked. Did he really just tell you his neighborhood? Was this man never taught about the dangers of sharing personal details with strangers?

Says the girl who keeps answering his texts.

“Cool,” you panic-texted back, immediately cringing at how abrupt it sounded.

A second later, another message from him popped up:

“You don’t have to tell me your neighborhood. I know it’s probably TMI. Sorry if that made you uncomfortable.”

You blinked at the screen.

Wait, was he apologizing? For oversharing?

“It’s fine, but be careful, I might be a stalker. You never know 😉”

An emoji? Oh my god, did I just use an emoji?

You internally cringed, debating whether deleting the message was still an option. But his reply came quickly:

“I’m used to that.”

You stared at your phone, baffled. What? What does that even mean? Was he used to stalking people? Or being stalked? That didn’t even make sense. Had you missed some new meme or slang? Or was he just trying to sound cocky and mysterious? Either way, your brain was now racing, trying to decode mystery Harry man.

Harry, on the other hand, was staring at his phone, feeling a wave of nervousness wash over him. Shit, did that just give away who I am? He tried to reassure himself. Maybe not. It could pass as just a random response... right? But the doubt crept back in. Then again, if it’s just a random response, does that make me seem really weird? Ugh, why didn’t I think before typing? He sighed, running a hand through his hair as he waited for your reply, wondering if he’d managed to keep things casual—or accidentally made it more suspicious but as you never did he quickly types another thing

“Hey, can you help me with something?”

You stared at the message, your eyebrows furrowing. Whatever this is turning into, it’s really, REALLY weird, you thought. But at the same time, you couldn’t help but feel a bit thankful that he’d brushed off the whole stalking comment. Now he wanted help?

“I’m about to launch a new collection next month, and I need to choose four nail polish colors for a kit. Which ones would you pick?”

He sent a picture of a color sample sheet, words scribbled around it like, “Too bright?” “Love this one,” and “OUT.” The paper rested on a dark wood table, and you couldn’t help but notice his right hand in the frame, his nails painted in a sleek shade.

A man wearing nail polish? you thought, biting back a grin. What’s sexier than a guy with zero fragile masculinity?

STOP. Sexier? Seriously?

STOP. He’s a stranger.

“I would go with, the coral one at the top, the navy, the nude and the green”

“That’s literally what I was thinking. If they sell out it’s on you y/n”

“So I’ll be expecting a good commission then”

“Deal and thanks, by the way. For actually helping. I wasn’t sure you’d reply to that one.”

“No worries, it’s kind of nice having someone randomly text me about nail polish drama. Way better than client emails. Didn’t thought your business was about nail polishes though”

“Glad to be of service. Let me know if you ever need a second opinion on, I dunno, which shade of PowerPoint gray to use.”

“My saviour”

“That 's me. A true giver. Anyway, I’ll stop bothering you for now. But seriously, thanks again, Y/N.”

“No problem. Good luck with the collection!”

The conversation ends with more questions than answers about Harry—nail polishes? Why is this conversation flowing so effortlessly? It left you curious but not uneasy. Both of you felt like this wasn’t the last time you’d talk. It was a small, unexpected connection, one that neither of you was quite ready to let go of.

—-

Your mom’s birthday went on as planned. You were able to buy her a beautiful scarf from one of her favorite brands—pricey, yes, but it was your mom, so you didn’t mind splurging. And if you happened to overdo your sister this time? Well, that wasn’t the point, not entirely. But deep down, it felt good to prove to yourself that you could keep up, even if her success with her law firm always felt like a shadow hanging over you.

It had been five days since you and Harry last texted. It felt... normal. No stomach-wrecking nerves like the ones you got when talking to guys you were interested in. No overanalyzing if you’d been annoying, rude, or too eager. With Harry, it was different. Maybe it was because he was still mostly a stranger. Maybe because you weren’t trying to impress him. Or maybe because you knew deep down that, even if he didn’t reply again, it wouldn’t sting. At least for now.

After a few days of sporadic texting, Harry throws out an idea, the text that changed everything.

“Okay, hear me out: since we both don’t want to seem like stalkers, how about a deal? We get to ask one random question a day. Nothing creepy or too revealing. Just normal stuff. What do you think?”

You smirked at the screen. He’s trying to make it less weird? Bold of him to assume this isn’t already weird.

“Alright, but you go first”

“Fine. If you could live anywhere in the world, where would it be?”

“Somewhere coastal. Like Brighton, maybe? I need the sea to remind me I’m alive.”

“Interesting choice. I’d go somewhere quiet, but still close to a city. Like, Italy?”

You paused for a second, feeling a little silly. He chose a whole other country, and you’d barely ventured two and a half hours away from London. Still, it was a start.

The daily questions continued, evolving from a simple game into something that felt more like a natural rhythm. Each question peeled back another layer of this stranger you were beginning to know better, even without ever seeing his face. You learned that Harry loved tea but hated coffee—how do you even function?—and that his favorite season was autumn. He found out you adored thunderstorms and had an irrational fear of elevators, thanks to a terrifying incident years ago when an elevator you were in nearly dropped two floors.

It wasn’t just the questions, though. There were moments in between: a blurry photo of an office corner from Harry, captioned, “My life in chaos”; a street view of Downtown that you sent, carefully avoiding any landmarks near your home. Then there was the fluffy golden retriever he’d spotted on his way to work—he couldn’t resist sharing it with you.

Before bed each night, you’d find yourself thinking for at least twenty minutes, trying to decide what to ask next. The game didn’t feel like a game anymore. It was something else, something steady and comforting. For now, there was no pressure to meet or cross any lines—just two strangers finding small joys in their shared curiosity. But now it felt refreshing and even exciting whenever his or your question popped up on the phone.

It was a rare Sunday sunny afternoon in London, and you found yourself strolling down the street. The shops buzzed with life, tourists snapping photos, and locals hurrying along with their errands. You were looking forward to reach that particularly small ice cream shop you loved. That’s when you saw it—a storefront with sleek, funky decor and the words Pleasing printed elegantly across the window. You slowed your pace, curiosity pulling you closer. The display was stunning: a lineup of nail polishes in perfectly curated colors. Coral. Navy. Nude. Green.

Your heart skipped a beat.

No. It couldn’t be. This is just a coincidence.

You even felt silly for considering it. But for a moment, you just stood there, staring at the bottles neatly arranged under soft, flattering light. Your mind raced back to that conversation. Harry when he had asked for your opinion on nail polish colors. Coral, navy, nude, and green. The same exact shades in the window now.

It HAD to be a coincidence.

“Pleasing is huge…Harry is a huge pop star too” you thought to yourself, folding your arms as if to shield your thoughts from prying eyes. “There’s no way. It’s not like that Harry would just randomly text someone asking for nail polish advice. Or just to play a silly game of questions everyday”

But the seed of doubt was planted. Your phone buzzed in your pocket, breaking your trance. For a split second, you expected to see a message from him. But it was just a group chat notification—nothing exciting. You took a deep breath, willing your mind to behave. “Stop being ridiculous” you tought “He was probably just some regular guy with the same first name, with the same kind of business. Nothing more.”

Still, as you walked away from the shop, the memory of his texts lingered, trailing behind you like the shadow of a question you couldn’t quite answer. Was it possible? Could he have been the Harry all along? The thought was outrageous, yet your heart raced with the tiniest flicker of hope—or was it just pure curiosity? You slipped your phone out of your pocket, scrolling back through weeks of messages. One by one, you opened the pictures he had sent, your eyes scanning every corner, every detail, hoping for something—a slip-up, a clue, anything to confirm or dismiss the wild idea.

There was the photo of the nail polish color samples, laid out on a dark wooden table. You zoomed in on the edge of the frame. The faintest reflection of something metallic—jewelry? A ring? You’d noticed his hand before, polished nails and all, but now you studied it with new intent.

Then, there was the picture of a cat, curled up on a plush couch. The background caught your attention this time: the kind of sleek, minimalist decor that wouldn’t look out of place in a magazine. It could belong to anyone, really…but why did it suddenly seem so…familiar? Your finger hovered over the screen as you stared at his name in your contacts: Harry. Just Harry.

And yet, the thought wouldn’t leave you alone. You zoomed in on one last photo—the corner of his shoe peeking into the frame of a sunset he’d sent you. White Sambas. Completely ordinary. But the tiniest voice in the back of your mind whispered, or maybe not.

You locked your phone and shoved it back into your pocket, your cheeks burning as if someone had caught you red-handed in your amateur sleuthing. “Get a grip,” you thought. “Even if it was him, he’d never admit it. And honestly, why would he have time to text a stranger?”

Still, the idea danced at the edge of your thoughts, impossible to ignore. As you walked away from the Pleasing shop, a small, secret smile tugged at your lips. Even if it was crazy, the idea was kind of…fun.

The easy back-and-forth continued for days, it was like a month by now, his messages feeling less like texts from a stranger and more like snippets of a conversation with someone familiar. You felt lighter, laughing more often, and somehow the world didn’t seem quite as dull as it did a few weeks ago.

Then, one night, came a new question:

“If you could pick one place to meet a stranger for the first time, where would it be?”

Wait. Wait. Wait. Is this what I think it is?

Your heart jumped as you stared at the screen, the words blurring for a second. You thought for a moment, carefully choosing your response before typing: “A café. Casual, safe, easy to leave if they’re weird. Full of people, maybe near a police station if they’re a serial killer. You?”

His response came quicker than you expected.

“But if you could pick an estimated time to meet a stranger, how long would you wait to feel comfortable with it?”

You rolled your eyes, smiling despite yourself. “Nice try, Harry.”

“Goodnight, Tulip 🌷.”

Oh no. That wasn’t your stomach growling in hunger; those were butterflies. Actual, undeniable butterflies. Was it even possible to feel something for someone you had no idea what they looked like? What if he was totally different in person, the opposite of this charming, thoughtful guy behind the texts?

Harry had started calling you Tulip after you’d mentioned they were your favorite flowers, and somehow, it stuck. Now, every time he used it, it made you smile like a fool.

Maybe his question was just a throwaway comment, harmless banter before he said goodnight. Or... maybe it wasn’t.

----

One Friday morning, you found yourself buried in work at a café you liked to visit when you needed a break from your desk. The smell of freshly brewed coffee and the sound of quiet chatter helped you focus on a new project.You were mid-email when your phone buzzed.

“Today’s question: what’s your go-to coffee order?”

You smiled, grabbed your cup, and snapped a quick picture to attach to your reply. “An iced latte with oat milk. Drinking one right now.”

“Is that a café?”

“Yeah, it didn't feel like an office day today.”

Moments later, your phone buzzed again, and your stomach dropped.

“…I think I see you.”

Your heart stuttered. Wait. What? Your eyes flicked around the café with a mixture of curiosity and panic. Students were typing away on laptops, a few professionals were deep in email mode, and a couple laughed over their pastries at the next table. Everything seemed normal—except now you felt like you were being watched. You straightened in your seat, pretending to be calm while your mind raced. Another buzz.

“I don’t mean to freak you out, but… blue sweater, iced latte, corner seat by the window?”

Your stomach did a flip. That was definitely you. The serial killer theories came roaring back in your brain.

“Okay, very funny. That was just a lucky guess, wasn’t it?” You hit send, not sure if you wanted him to be joking or if you secretly hoped he was serious.

“No joke. I swear.”

Your hands trembled slightly as you set the phone down. You scanned the room more carefully now, eyes darting from one face to another. Was it the guy with the newspaper in the corner? The barista behind the counter? And then, you saw him.

A man near the door, half-hidden behind sunglasses and a black baseball cap, a scarf loosely wrapped around his neck, holding a cup. He was leaning casually against the wall, phone in hand.

Holy fucking shit. No. No way. Your brain scrambled for logic. This was just a dream, right? Some random coincidence. But your phone buzzed again, yanking you back into reality.

“Disappointed?”

Your breath hitched. He’d sent the text just as you watched him tap his phone. And when your screen lit up, he glanced up—right at you.

It wasn’t a coincidence.

It was him. Harry. Your Harry. and Everyone's Harry Styles.

PART 2!!

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wanders-in-wonderland · 10 months ago

Text

Smile for the Camera

It’s 10pm sharp when I start my stream. I’ve always been on time, always with my makeup on flawlessly, hair styled perfectly, and bedroom set curated just right to show my pretty pink sheets and collection of toys.

I smile and wave at the camera, tossing my hair back to reveal the pink lingerie set I’ve chosen for tonight.

“Good evening everyone! I’m sooo glad to see so many of you tuning in!”

The chat inbox floods with greetings from my audience and there’s an influx of money that comes from my particularly generous viewers. I giggle and flirt with my viewers, many of whom who have become regulars in my viewership population.

Someone in the audience asks for a strip tease and I feel my pussy pulse in response, looking forward to a night of performing for my devoted viewers.

I start slow, running my fingers up and down my body, brushing gently over my lingerie-clad nipples and whimpering loudly for the microphone to pick up. My eyes stare into the camera, all of my thoughts melting away as I fall into my role of entertainer.

Teasingly, I pull along the shoulder straps of my top, letting the fabric fall away from my chest to show off my perky tits and hardened nipples that are always a fan favorite. My hands dance over my chest, pulling gently at my nipples in a way that makes my moans completely genuine. My eyes glance to the screen and I see the excitement building in my chat box, and my account balance steadily rising.

Suddenly, I hear the lock on my door click and my body goes cold. The door to my room is out of the video shot, behind my camera setup and before I can even react, the door slams open.

I let out a startled yelp as my arms instinctively cover my chest. In the corner of my eye, I see the chat go crazy as my audience tries to figure out what it is they’re hearing but not seeing off screen. My attention is wholly focused on the man whose frame fills my doorway.

I scramble off my bed. “What the fuck? Why are you in my house?” My voice is shaking with fear and shrill with panic. I’m far too preoccupied to even think about the livestream anymore.

My fear deepens when I see him leer at me and stalk through my door and towards me without any hesitation.

“A fucking whore like you should be more gracious to me,” he says, his eyes taking on a dangerous glint. He and I are both in the camera’s view now and the viewers on my stream are firing off more messages than before, speculating over who he is and what is going on.

Without saying anything else, he moves to me faster than I can evade and grabs my hair. My mouth opens to scream but before sound can escape, he throws me chest down onto my bed. The air is forced out of my lungs and for a moment, I’m still and stunned. The next moment, he’s on me.

His hand is buried in my hair, keeping my face pressed down against the bed while he forces my ass up into the air. I struggle uselessly against him, unable to push up off the bed or move myself away from his ironclad grip. My cries are muffled against my bed and I want to scream and yell for help but there’s not enough air in my lungs.

His free hand lands a sharp slap against my ass that make me jolt forwards and arch my back further in pain. He doesn’t give me time to adjust as he begins to land blow after blow. My arms begin to flail, fingers scrambling for something to hold onto as I struggle.

“Stop fucking moving, whore,” he growls at me. I feel the spanks subside for a moment and I can feel my ass burning red and throbbing from the pain. My head spins from the abuse and the lack of oxygen. I feel his large hand find my wrist, his fingers locking around me in a bruising hold as he yanks my arm behind my back, straining my shoulder.

The hand on my head finally comes away and I raise my head just enough to gasp in much-needed oxygen. In that split second, he’d grabbed and secured my other arm behind my back as well, his one hand effortless holding my arms crossed behind my back. My body is still bent over, knees on the bed and ass up in the air. My only saving grace is that I can raise my head enough to breathe and glance at my laptop, showing the livestream still ongoing.

My eyes dart across the screen, reading messages as fast as I can. None of them show any concern for me, in fact, a vast majority are discussing how much they wished they were the ones holding my body down in this moment.

“Fuck yes, show that whore her place.”

“God, what would I do to be there to punish her for always teasing us.”

“I bet her cunt is dripping wet right now.”

I whine softly when I see that message because it’s right. “Please, let me go!” I turn my head to look at the menace of a man behind me. He flashes a dark grin at me, “Not until I fuck you out of your whore mind.”

His words echo in my head and panic rises within me. “Please! No! Stop! Someone help me!” I make eye contact with the camera, begging at its cold, dark lens.

He laughs behind me. “There’s no one here to help you, whore. You and I both know that every single person watching behind their computer screen is more than eager to see your whore body get ruined.”

As he speaks, his free hand pulls his belt and pants undone enough for him to pull his massive cock out. I let out a choked gasp when I see it.

“Wait, no, please, you’re too big, it’s not going to fit! Please!” My voice shakes and I start to struggle harder against him. His body dwarfs mine and I watch through the camera as he rips my panties off, the sound of tearing fabric filling the room.

“Shut the fuck up and take it, whore.” I feel the head of his cock brush against my dripping slit and my eyes widen.

“Wait, please-” My begging ends in a wail as he slams himself into me to the hilt. The painful stretch makes tears spring into my eyes but unimaginable pleasure quickly follows as his cock nudges into every sensitive spot inside of me. He doesn’t give me time to adjust as he begins to rut into me mercilessly.

Every thrust makes my body shake with pain-tinged pleasure and pathetic moans are spilling out of my mouth as my eyes roll upwards. My hazy vision catches a glimpse of us on the camera. I look like a rag doll, back arched, ass in the air, and shuddering as he towers over me, his cock sinking into my cunt.

Every thrust is accompanied by the squelch of my wetness and the sound of our bodies slamming into each other. The bed creaks under us as his body moves like a machine, drilling into me. “Fuck, you tight fucking whore, your pussy was made for me huh?”

His voice is guttural. Suddenly, he grips my upper arms and yanks me upwards. His other hand comes around to grip my throat as he traps me against his front. The new angle makes his cock stab even deeper into me, forcing a cry from my lips.

“Look at the fucking camera, whore. Show them what a fucked out little slut you are. Go ahead, smile for the camera.” His thrusts seem to come even faster now.

I have tears falling from my eyes as my face reddens from his constricting grip around my neck.

“Smile or I choke you out on my cock like this,” he snarls, hips never stuttering in their punishing pace. I let out a muffled groan and try my best to focus myself enough to obey.

I stare through half-lidded eyes at the camera, barely coherent. My lips pull up in a small, desperate smile as I feel myself gradually running out of air.

“Good fucking whore. Now tell them how much you like having your whore cunt fucked.” His hand leaves my throat and goes to pinch my clit harshly, making me squeal.

“Ah- I like having, ah-, my whore cunt fucked!” My voice is hoarse, my orgasm fast approaching as he starts to roughly roll my clit between his fingers.

“That’s right, and you’re going to cum like this aren’t you, whore? Come on, cum all over me, show them how much you love this.” His words combined with the brutal assault on my body push me over the edge and with a desperate wail, I fall apart.

I hear him groan lowly behind me as my pussy clenches around him, my orgasm ripping through my senses. He uses my body harder than ever, treating me like a sex toy as he chases his own release. He slams himself into me one final time as he erupts, his grip bruising my arms as he keeps me in place.

I collapse against him, a boneless, overstimulated mess. He lets me down gently onto the bed, pulling out of me. The sound of his cock squelching out of my pussy makes my viewers more than aware of how well-fucked I am. He steps away from the bed and towards my filming setup. He leans into the camera and smirks.

“Let me know how else you want to see this whore fucked. If your idea is good, maybe I’ll let you come and enjoy her too.” With that, he shuts the camera off and closes out of the streaming site.

My body is still limp on the bed. I feel him settle next to me and pull me close before brushing my hair away from my forehead and kissing my nose.

“Do you think they liked me?” His murmurs.

“They loved you,” I say, breathless and drowsy from what we just did.

“I hope so, I wouldn’t want my debut on your stream to make a bad first impression,” he says, frowning down at me a little. It makes me let out a soft laugh.

I tilt my head up to kiss his jawline, “Only you would fuck the life out of me on livestream and then worry that you did a bad job.”

I giggle again and he grumbles back at me, “Shut up and sleep, I’ll clean up.” His kiss on my forehead is the last thing I remember before drifting off to sleep.

#nsft concept #dark fantasy #cnc k!nk #tw noncon #rap3 fantasy #cam grl #exhibition kink #aftercare #size difference #size k!nk #breathplay #bimboification #fsub #mdom #rough kink #rough cnc #roughfuck

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coriihanniee · 1 month ago

Text

WHEN YOU'RE SICK VS WHEN HE'S SICK ⋆˚✿˖°

۶ৎ PAIRING : boynextdoor x gn!reader ۶ৎ GENRE(S) : established relationship, a whole load of FLUFF!!! ۶ৎ WARNINGS(S) : mentions of fever, colds, and general illness (nothing severe), slight medical caretaking (blankets, soup, cold compress, etc.), lots of secondhand embarrassment from Jaehyun and Woonhak being dramatic (not actually hehe), minor mentions of emotional clinginess and crying (but in a soft/funny way) ۶ৎ WORD COUNT : 0.3k - 0.5k words

۶ৎ A/N : My first ever headcanon fic! 💌 This one’s a little self-indulgent since I’m currently sick rn .·°՞(っ-ᯅ-ς)՞°·. so I wrote about how BOYNEXTDOOR would take care of you (or how they'd act if they were the sick ones themselves). Also… I just realized every fic I’ve written so far has been angst… 😳 So please accept this soft, chaotic fluff as a humble apology for emotionally wrecking you all. Consider it a tissue and a warm soup for your soul 🥲💗

SUNGHO ࣪ ִֶָ་༘࿐

ᰔ when you're sick :

۶ৎ balances between giving you space and checking in just enough to make sure you're comfortable

۶ৎ makes a quick trip to the store and returns with medicine, your favorite drinks, and a small surprise to cheer you up

۶ৎ helps change your bedsheets because "fresh sheets always feel better when you're under the weather"

۶ৎ wears a mask even if you’re the sick one :

"Sungho, I’m the contagious one."

"Yeah, but what if I breathe in your sick and it bounces back at you?? Think, babe.”

۶ৎ checks your temperature every five minutes because he's convinced your fever is one decimal away from a medical emergency :

“Sungho you checked my temperature five minutes ago…”

“Yeah, and what if it went up since then? What if you're like... melting and I missed it?”

۶ৎ lays you gently in bed like a precious doll. Adjusts the blanket 12 times. Pats it smooth. Kisses your forehead, checks for fever, then kisses it again just in case :

“You’re acting like I’m dying.”

“I almost lost you to a paper cut once. Let me panic in peace.”

۶ৎ offers to make you simple but nutritious meals : "You need to keep your strength up."

۶ৎ keeps making you tea, but forgets he already made one, so by 2pm you have five mugs on your nightstand and he’s still going. “Tea is healing, babe. You're basically 80% tea now.”

۶ৎ reads out funny messages from the other members to make you smile

۶ৎ stays up to check on your breathing :

“Okay… still breathing. Good. You're doing amazing, sweetie. I love you.”

ᰔ when he's sick :

۶ৎ refuses to admit he’s sick for the longest time. He’s wiping down counters, vacuuming the floor with a tissue stuck to one nostril like :

“I’m not sick, I just— achoo—need to open a window or something.”

۶ৎ tries to go to the gym anyway. You physically have to block the door :

"You’re sweating and not in a gains way, Sungho."

"But my back day—"

"Will be waiting when you’re not running a fever."

۶ৎ refuses to be babied… until you do

۶ৎ at first he’s all “I’m fine, don’t worry about me.”

۶ৎ but the moment you put a cool cloth on his forehead or brush his hair back, his whole body melts and he just whispers, “...Do that again.”

۶ৎ he usually holds you at night, but when he’s sick, he turns into the clingiest little spoon

۶ৎ Lays on your chest with a pitiful voice :

“I think I’m dying.”

“You have a cold.”

“A dramatic one.”

۶ৎ still tries to meal prep through the sickness

۶ৎ you catch him in the kitchen trying to chop broccoli with a hoodie over his head, sniffing every five seconds :

“Sungho. Please go lie down.”

“But we need protein—”

“I will feed you boiled eggs. Just. Go.”

۶ৎ will grumble about “not being weak,” but the second you tuck the blanket under his chin or spoon-feed him porridge, he’s looking at you with those lovey dovey eyes :

“I could get used to this.”

“You better not.”

۶ৎ pouts when you leave the room for 2 seconds :

“I’m just getting you more tea.”

“I thought you abandoned me. (˚ ˃̣̣̥⌓˂̣̣̥ ) ”

RIWOO ࣪ ִֶָ་༘࿐

ᰔ when you're sick :

۶ৎ shows up with no announcement, just slips into your home with comfort food and quiet support

۶ৎ doesn’t say much, but somehow he’s cooked your comfort meal exactly how you like it — “Not too spicy. I remember.”

۶ৎ leaves sticky notes all around your space :

"Take this one after lunch." (on your meds)

"Drink water or I will be silently disappointed." (on your water bottle)

"Eat this. I picked out the weird onions." (on your porridge)

۶ৎ you don’t even see him move—he’s just like a ghost nurse who appears, helps, and vanishes

۶ৎ sits at the foot of the bed, just watching something on his phone with the volume low so he doesn’t disturb you

۶ৎ occasionally tosses you a fruit snack like a koala being fed at a zoo

۶ৎ gives your ankle a gentle squeeze like: I’m here, rest easy.

۶ৎ puts on a movie or show he knows you'll enjoy, sitting close enough that you can lean on him if you want

۶ৎ remembers the little details about how you like your tea or what side you prefer to sleep on

۶ৎ doesn’t make a fuss about the tissues or mess. He just calmly puts on gloves, clears everything up, and hums quietly to himself

۶ৎ you try to thank him. He shrugs. “I like taking care of you.” …

۶ৎ now your fever’s worse, but for romantic reasons

ᰔ when he's sick :

۶ৎ becomes extra quiet, communicating mostly through sleepy nods and head shakes

۶ৎ he’s in full cozy mode — oversized hoodie, two pairs of socks, blanket wrapped like a cocoon. He just blinks slowly from the corner of the couch while you fuss over him

۶ৎ wants you nearby but doesn't want to be a burden : "You don't have to stay..."

۶ৎ this cutie always wants food but has no energy 🥹 :

“I want kimchi jjigae… but the chopsticks are too far.”

“They’re literally next to you.”

“...Then fate is against me.”

۶ৎ sometimes, he'll just stare longingly at the fridge and sigh :

“Do you want juice?”

“...Wouldn’t mind some. If the universe provides.” (The “universe” is you. Obviously.)

۶ৎ is somehow still able to make dad jokes :

“I made you soup.”

“Soup-erb. You’re soup-erb. You’re… souper.”

“Stop.”

“Can’t. I’m on a broth roll.”

۶ৎ gets embarrassed about how messy his hair looks or how raspy his voice becomes

۶ৎ doesn’t want to talk much, but wants you nearby. Will hold your pinky with his under the blanket

۶ৎ if you leave the room too long, he texts you “🧃? 🥺” or a sad selfie with half his face under a hoodie

۶ৎ the rare, genuine smile he gives when you bring him something he needs without asking speaks volumes 💕

JAEHYUN ࣪ ִֶָ་༘࿐

ᰔ when you're sick :

۶ৎ you sneeze once and Jaehyun is already in your room with a thermometer, two drinks (water and vitamin juice), tissues, a plushie, and five different worries :

“Baby?? My love?? My precious one?? Are you okay?? Are you dying?? Should we call the hospital?? Should I fight your immune system??”

۶ৎ cannot stop talking… "So I was thinking about what might make you feel better and I remembered this one time when I was sick and my mom did this thing with ginger and honey and…”

۶ৎ walks in with a bowl of soup like it’s the Olympic torch :

“I have brought you a gift. A miracle. A healing potion passed down by my ancestors—”

“It’s literally instant porridge.”

“Don’t ruin the lore.”

۶ৎ constantly flits around your space, adjusting blinds, fluffing pillows, reorganizing medicine

۶ৎ “I wanna hug you but I don’t wanna get sick.” So he lies at the edge of the bed, dramatically stretching one arm over to hold your hand. Ten minutes later he’s asleep on top of you anyway

۶ৎ sends hourly encouraging text messages with an excessive amount of emojis

۶ৎ dramatically reads stories to distract you, doing all the character voices

۶ৎ while you nap, he tapes a little note to your vitamin bottle that says “eat these or I cry ( ｡ •̀ ᴖ •́ ｡)💢”

۶ৎ his genuine concern shows in how he keeps touching your forehead, shoulder, hand - just making sure you're okay

ᰔ when he's sick :

۶ৎ somehow becomes EVEN MORE talkative, but now with a raspy voice :

"I'm fine! I'm fine! It's just a little cold! Did I tell you about the dream I had last night?"

۶ৎ gets emotional about literally everything : "This tissue is so soft... why am I crying?”

۶ৎ SO clingy. Will not let you leave the room. Follows you with his eyes like a sad puppy :

“Where are you going? You’re leaving me?”

“To get your medicine.”

“…Take me with you 🥺”

۶ৎ literally wraps himself around your arm like a koala :

“Can you feed me?”

“You can feed yourself.”

“Yeah but it tastes better when you do it 😔”

۶ৎ coughs once and acts like he's on death's doorstep :

“This is it. This is how it ends.”

“Jaehyun, you’re being so dramatic—”

“Tell Taesan to take my solo lines. Tell Riwoo he was my favorite. Tell Woonhak I've loved him since the very day I birthed him.”

۶ৎ basically the most dramatic out of the six :

“Promise me something.”

“…What?”

“If I don’t make it, delete all my selfies. But leave the ones from Jeju. I looked good in those.”

TAESAN ࣪ ִֶָ་༘࿐

ᰔ when you're sick :

۶ৎ also doesn’t say much, but somehow everything’s already done

۶ৎ your meds? On the nightstand. Water? Cold and fresh. Room? Quiet and dim. You didn’t even hear him come in

۶ৎ tucks you in like it's instinct. Pulls the blanket over your shoulders. Adjusts the pillow. Brushes a hand over your forehead like he’s checking if you’re too warm, too cold, or just need a little affection. Doesn’t say anything about it

۶ৎ plays soft alt rock through his speaker, says, “This helped my little sister. Might help you too.”

۶ৎ if you try to get up and do anything, he just goes, “Sit.” And you…sit

۶ৎ folds your laundry, disinfects your phone, and empties the trash without being asked. “I’ve done this before. You're not allowed to move unless it’s to hug me.”

۶ৎ deadpan threatens you whenever he tries feeding you :

“Eat or I'm sending Woonhak your sick selfies.”

“That's blackmail!”

“And it works.”

۶ৎ adjusts your blanket while you’re sleeping. You pretend you don’t notice. He pretends he didn’t do it. You both know he did

۶ৎ never says he's worried, but you can tell from the small acts of services he does and how he glances at you every 5 seconds like : please feel better already

ᰔ when he's sick :

۶ৎ he doesn't like feeling weak, so he tries to hide it

۶ৎ you only found out he's sick because he sneezed twice during a voice call and his voice cracked :

“Are you sick?”

“...no.”

“You sound like a dying cat.”

“...cool.”

۶ৎ eventually gives in to your care… but barely speaks

۶ৎ will wrap himself in layers and still be cold

۶ৎ he’s in a hoodie, scarf, and blanket burrito — arms crossed, nose red, refusing to admit he’s miserable :

“Why are you sulking?”

“I'm not. I just... can’t breathe.”

۶ৎ if you sit by his bed and play with his hair or read next to him, he instantly knocks out. Doesn’t say anything, but shifts closer in his sleep

۶ৎ grumbles softly when you get up like: no, warmth, come back.

۶ৎ giant mountain? More like giant baby

۶ৎ secretly appreciates everything you do for him 🥹

۶ৎ he won’t say “thank you” outright. But when he’s feeling a bit better, he pulls you in for a quiet hug and murmurs, “You take care of me too well. It’s unfair.”

LEEHAN ࣪ ִֶָ་༘࿐

ִᰔ when you're sick :

۶ৎ arrives with a small aquarium: "Studies show watching fish reduces stress and helps healing!”

۶ৎ makes you hydration drinks with way too much love :

“What’s this?”

“It’s vitamin water… but I added lemon slices shaped like hearts and stirred it counter-clockwise for positive energy.”

“…Thank you?”

۶ৎ makes oddly specific but helpful remedies: "This is seaweed soup with exactly seven types of seaweed.”

۶ৎ sits beside your bed and whispers fish trivia to you :

“Did you know clownfish can change gender if the dominant female dies?”

“…Leehan.”

“It’s important to keep your brain stimulated while you’re resting!”

(But lowkey, his voice is so soothing you fall asleep halfway through a fact about seahorses.)

۶ৎ gives you his favourite plushie to cuddle with “for morale” he says :

۶ৎ it’s shaped like a blue tang fish and smells faintly like lavender

“He’s been through a lot. He knows how to handle tough days.”

“What’s his name?”

“Doctor Tang.”

“…Okay.”

۶ৎ tucks you into bed with such care like he’s folding sacred origami. He literally whispers, “There. Safe and warm. Like a burrito. My burrito.” before kissing your forehead 💕

ᰔ when he's sick :

۶ৎ MY SHAYLAAAAA 😭😭😭

۶ৎ is so apologetic when he's sick :

“Sorry… my body is failing me… I didn’t mean to…”

“My love, it’s literally just a cold—”

“I let my white blood cells down.”

۶ৎ has a collection of soft blankets and aquatic plushies that only emerge when he's unwell

۶ৎ adores when you play with his hair or rub his back to help him relax

۶ৎ wants you to play marine documentaries when he sleeps : “No horror movies. Just gentle turtles… maybe a kelp forest.”

۶ৎ falls asleep halfway through David Attenborough’s narration and smiles in his sleep when the narrator says “nudibranch”

۶ৎ once he's better, he acts like he had a spiritual journey :

“I dreamed I was a guppy floating through space.”

“…Okay.”

“And you were there. Feeding me vitamin jelly.”

“Hannie. Go brush your teeth.”

۶ৎ looks at you with such genuine gratitude for simple acts of care that it makes your heart melt

WOONHAK ࣪ ִֶָ་༘࿐

ᰔ when you're sick :

۶ৎ “YOU’RE WHAT? SICK?!”

۶ৎ he finds out and gasps like you told him you're moving to another country. Then runs around gathering everything like it’s a medical emergency :

“Do you need soup? Ice? Socks? Medicine? A hug? Two hugs??”

۶ৎ his naturally loud voice keeps dropping as he remembers to be quieter: "I brought SOUP! I mean... soup.”

۶ৎ brings an overflowing bag of snacks, drinks, and random items he thought might cheer you up

۶ৎ despite his playful nature, he shows remarkable maturity in how he cares for you

۶ৎ keeps trying to make you laugh: "A smile strengthens your immune system! I read that somewhere... or maybe I made it up?"

۶ৎ expresses his concern openly and warmly: "I was really worried about you, you know?”

۶ৎ puts on cartoons for you because "they heal the soul"

۶ৎ sits next to you under the blanket and gasps at every plot twist in Paw Patrol like it’s his first time watching :

“Did you SEE THAT? He SAVED THE BOAT—babe, are you watching?”

dozing off

“She’s sleeping peacefully… I’m sobbing.”

۶ৎ will not stop hugging you even though he’s told “no contact”

۶ৎ creates elaborate pillow fortresses around you "for protection against bad germs”

ᰔ when he's sick :

۶ৎ remember when I said Jaehyun is the most dramatic? He has some competition...

“Hey, how are you feeling—”

“I CAN’T SMELL. I MIGHT NEVER SMELL AGAIN.”

“It’s a stuffy nose—”

“I FORGOT WHAT CHOCOLATE SMELLS LIKE.”

۶ৎ lays on the bed like he’s in a music video about heartbreak. Blanket up to his nose. Arms flopped dramatically :

“Do you want tea?”

“I want… to feel alive again.”

۶ৎ slips into full baby mode because he just loves being babied by you but will never admit it :

“Will you brush my hair?”

“Can you sing to me while I nap?”

“Will you feed me tiny spoonfuls of soup and call me a strong boy?”

۶ৎ won’t eat unless you feed him

“No I can’t lift my arms… you have to do the airplane… no, wait, the rocket ship—okay I’m ready.”

opens mouth dramatically

۶ৎ whimpers if you try to leave the room :

“I’ll go make tea—”

“NoooOooOO don’t go… what if I need cuddles mid-sip…”

۶ৎ starts naming your care items

“This water bottle’s name is Aqua. She’s my emotional support friend now.”

“This tissue pack? He’s called Mr. Fluffy.”

۶ৎ gets genuinely sad when you try to throw them away

“You can’t just discard Fluffy like that... he caught my tears…”

۶ৎ the way he lights up when you bring him his favorite snack makes taking care of him rewarding

۶ৎ falls asleep holding your hand, looking younger and more vulnerable than usual🥹

@coriihanniee 💌

˖➴ reblogs are appreciated! ty for reading! <3

taglist: @lvlyhiyyih @supi-wupi @tinyelfperson @8makes1atom @s0shroe @imhereonlytoreadxoxo @mydeepestsecrects @brownetry @pumpkg @heeheesang @jungwonbropls @prodkwh @reibelhearts

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logaenhowlett · 5 months ago

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I ONLY WANT TO BE WITH YOU - L.H.

Summary: The small things are never just small things. For Logan, they're the constellations charting the story of him and you.

Pairing: Logan Howlett x Female Reader

Warnings: Fluff (your heart may not be able to handle this), Established relationship, Domestic AF

A/N: I'll jump at any chance to write for Origins!Logan (he's my man fr). Here's another one for my A Weekend with Logan Howlett event! The prompt was ELATION. Title creds to Shelby Lynne.

MASTERLIST

“Honey, I’m home.”

“In the backyard!”

Keys follow a graceful arc as Logan tosses them into the tray by the door. And as always, they land with a soft clink, a quiet exhalation of metal on ceramic signalling the end of his workday.

The tray itself - a chipped, sun-faded thing you'd unearthed at an antique market one afternoon - bears the loving imprint of time. He remembers the way your eyes lit up immediately, declaring it "perfect" before playfully haggling with the vendor, your laughter ringing through the crowded stalls like a cascade of wind chimes.

Boots thud against the floor. As he toes them off, the memory of your gentle chiding surfaces; "Baby..." drawn out in an affectionate warning as you gestured to the offending muddy tracks.

Logan glances down, half-expecting the telltale streaks of dirt. Instead, the polished wood gleams back, pristine and devoid of smudges. And he knows, with a sweet certainty, that you'll be pleased.

His jacket sways the already-leaning coat rack, adding to the precarious balance of hats, scarves and dog leads you insisted on buying for the neighbour's German Shepherds. Those evenings - leash in hand as the dogs bound ahead, your face alight with a smile rivalling the setting sun - nestle warmly in the depths of his heart.

Couch cushions, dented from countless hours of cuddling and late-night reading, yield lightly beneath his touch as he ventures through the living room. On the coffee table, lit candles cast shadows across faint, nearly invisible rings of condensation, ghosts of beer bottles past.

The fireplace crackles merrily, chasing away the frosty air he'd braved last night to gather the wood piled neatly beside it. "Do you have to?" you'd murmured as he reluctantly unwound himself from your embrace. "I'll be quick, darlin'", the promise sealed with a kiss upon your nose.

Framed photographs adorn the mantlepiece above. One catches Logan's eye in particular: your first Christmas together. The ridiculously ugly sweater you'd crocheted with painstaking - and slightly misguided - enthusiasm encases him. He's tucked into your neck, seeking refuge from both the camera's flash and the itchy wool, but a small, happy smile betrays his discomfort.

Warm apple pie, its sweetness a siren's call, beckons him into the kitchen. A traitorous urge tempts him with visions of a generous sliver. But then he remembers your hand, light yet firm, swatting his greedy fingers away. "Dessert's after dinner, Lo," followed by his usual retort: "As long as you're on the menu, baby."

With a chuckle, he retrieves a bottle of ice-cold water from the fridge, briefly studying the disarray on its shiny surface. Sticky notes, some containing important reminders such as "Bring eggs please!" and "I love you" scrawled alongside silly doodles, compose a riot of colour and ink.

Just beyond the kitchen's threshold, a laundry basket rests patiently under the hallway light. Messy sheets from the morning spill over the rim, tangling with several orphaned socks and those boxers - the unbelievably soft ones you'd gifted him - that Logan swears he can't live without.

Familiar notes sound from the record player. Whistling along, he heads towards the bathroom, the basket bumping gently against his hip. And soon, the rhythmic whir of the washing machine falls in with the melody.

The chipped bathtub stands as evidence of an incident both clumsy and intimate from last week. Steam billowed in a thick cloud as warm water lapped at your shoulders. And in the heat of the moment, Logan's claws scraped a jagged scar across the smooth porcelain. The sudden snikt had been a jarring interruption, but the shared fit of giggles quickly dissolved any tension.

All these thoughts of you urge him straight towards the backyard. And happiness hits him square in the chest, because there you are - kneeling amidst flowerbeds, hands working the rich soil as you nurture your plants.

And then, the pieces fall into place.

Nights whiled away on the porch steps, dreaming about your lives together. The letter, a clerical error addressing you as Mr and Mrs Howlett, which you'd jokingly hung on the wall, echoing a quiet promise. Musings of tiny footprints padding across the floor of what's currently the spare bedroom.

This is it. This is his future.

Without warning, his arm curves beneath you, sweeping you off the ground. "Logan!" you exclaim, clutching his shoulders.

“Marry me. What do you say, sweetheart?"

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red-riot-unbreakable-heart · 3 months ago

Text

Ruined My Sheets | Hawks x Reader

Summary: Only a few hours ago you had been on your way back from the laundromat when a low tier thug had approached you with a knife and attempted to mug you. Hawks had swept in and saved the day without a second thought. He'd stayed with you to chat as you did your laundry. Then he'd asked you for coffee. Coffee had gone on for three hours and after a lot of winking and flirting on his part, you had point blank asked Hawks to hop in your bed. (After he'd helped you put out your freshly laundered sheets, of course.)

Important Notes/TW: All characters are A21+, Hawks is a Pro Hero, Hookup, Hawks is fucked dumb, Reader takes charge, penetrative sex, strangers to lovers, unprotected sex, MDNI, This is an adult only blog posting mature content

"H-holy fuck." Hawks groans as you ride him, nice and slow as you please. "Do you thank all the Pro Heroes who save you like this?"

He's splayed out on his back on your clean, white sheets. Blissed out. His visor's still on, but his headphones and the rest of his hero costume are strewn indiscriminately across the room. It's twilight outside, and that sweet peach of a summer sun is slipping beneath the city's blurry horizon line outside your window. Only a few hours ago you had been on your way back from the laundromat when a low tier thug had approached you with a knife and attempted to mug you. Hawks had swept in and saved the day without a second thought. He'd stayed with you to chat as you did your laundry. Then he'd asked you for coffee. Coffee had gone on for three hours and after a lot of winking and flirting on his part, you had point blank asked Hawks to hop in your bed. (After he'd helped you put out your freshly laundered sheets, of course.)

Needless to say, he didn't need any convincing to strip down and pull you on his cock.

You engage your thigh muscles and drag yourself up up up - teasing Hawks so that he'll think you're getting off the ride. His golden eyes are wide as they watch your lithe body move. Before he can beg you to sit back down, you slowly slide yourself back into place. The slick sound your pussy makes as it engulfs his hard cock is downright sinful. You try to commit it to memory.

Hawks lets out a whine, watching as your soft breasts bounce in the low light.

"Maybe you should save me more often." You say as you roll your hips again, reveling in the way his thick hardness stretches you out. "I like giving out rewards to esteemed winged do-gooders."

"Oh, baby." Hawks says, closing his eyes and sitting up so he can wrap his arms around you. His wings puff out behind him, filling the space with crimson. He buries his face in your generous chest, pressing hot open mouthed kisses to the smooth swell of each breast before he looks up at you with earnest eyes. You smirk as you feel his stubble scratch against your soft skin. "If that's the case, I'll save you every day of the week."

You place a hand squarely on his chest and push him back down onto the bed. He lets himself fall back easily, eyes upturned as he watches you pleasure yourself on his cock.

"You sure we don't need me to put on a condom?" He asks uncertainly, staring at the spot where his dick slowly disappears into your bare pussy again. And again. And again. "'Cause if you keep this up, I'm definitely gonna cum soon."

"Nah." You grin down at him as you pick up your pace, sliding up and down that perfect cock of his. You lean backward and grip at his thigh for balance. "Feels better like this. All natural."

"Yeah. Right. Natural." He groans, his eyes rolling back in his head a little. You're fucking him dumb and you know it.

"Hey, Hawks. You good down there?" You laugh. He stays where he is - eyes half lidded - and raises up his arm to give you a solid thumbs up.

"I'm close, sweetheart." He groans from down on the mattress. You pick up the pace - shifting from a slow ride to a furious pounding fuck. His sharp intake of breath in response practically makes you cum on the spot.

You reach down and grab the visor off of his face, flinging it to the side. There's a satisfying clatter as it hits the wall to your left before landing on the floor. Good. Now you can see that pretty face fully. He's got the loveliest cheekbones and a cute sloping nose. His golden eyes are still half lidded, he's barely holding himself together.

His hands twitch and make their way to your hips, holding on for dear life as you bounce and roll on top of him. Your pussy gobbles him up again and again with a wet, wicked squelch.

You place your palms down flat on his chest for leverage, reveling in the strong defined muscle beneath your fingertips.

When Hawks cums, he cums hard.

He holds onto your hips like they're a lifeboat and he's a man drowning. His fingertips are sure to leave tiny bruises in their wake. You bounce up and down, eyes wide as he fills you up with hot spurts of baby batter. His eyes are squeezed shut as he pumps you full. He lets out a low moan as he finishes, feeling your pussy pulse as it pulls every last drop of thick cum out of him.

You groan as you ride out your own orgasm - the grip of his hands and the overwhelming feeling of being so completely filled throwing you over the edge.

What a pair you are: A Pro Hero making his last save of the day, and an unwitting would-be victim (aka a gal just trying to get her sheets washed at the laundromat).

Damn. You think as you both catch your breath and come down from the incredible high. Now I gotta go wash my sheets again.

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eformscreators · 1 year ago

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How to Use Your Last Paystub to File Taxes

Filing taxes can be a daunting task, but understanding how to use your last paystub can simplify the process. Whether you're an employee or a freelancer, your paystub contains crucial information needed to complete your tax return. In this blog, we'll walk you through the steps of using your last paystub to file taxes and highlight some useful tools like a paystub generator, 1099 MISC Form, and more.

Understanding Your Paystub

A paystub provides a detailed breakdown of your earnings and deductions. Key components include:

Gross Earnings: Total income before any deductions.

Net Earnings: Income after deductions.

Federal and State Taxes: Amounts withheld for tax purposes.

Social Security and Medicare: Deductions for social security and Medicare contributions.

Other Deductions: Any other deductions such as health insurance or retirement contributions.

Steps to File Taxes Using Your Last Paystub

1. Gather Your Paystub and Relevant Forms

Before you begin, ensure you have your last paystub of the year. You may also need other documents such as the 1099 MISC Form if you're a freelancer or independent contractor.

2. Review Your Paystub

Check that all information is correct, including your gross and net earnings, tax withholdings, and any other deductions. If you notice any discrepancies, contact your employer or use a paystub generator to create a corrected version.

3. Calculate Your Total Income

Use the gross earnings listed on your last paystub to calculate your total income for the year. If you have multiple jobs, add the gross earnings from all your paystubs.

4. Enter Information into Tax Forms

Transfer the information from your paystub to the appropriate tax forms. For employees, this is usually the W-2 form. Freelancers will use the 1099 MISC Form.

5. Deductions and Credits

Review any deductions or credits you may be eligible for, such as educational credits, retirement contributions, or health savings accounts. Ensure these are accurately reflected in your tax return.

6. File Your Taxes

You can file your taxes online or via mail. If you’re using a tax software, it will guide you through the process, ensuring all information from your paystub is correctly entered.

Related Article: DG Paystub

Useful Tools and Resources

Paystub Generators

If you need to create or correct a paystub, a paystub generator or paystub creator can be invaluable. These tools allow you to enter your earnings and deductions to generate a professional paystub.

1099 MISC Form

Freelancers and independent contractors must report their income using the 1099 MISC Form. Ensure you have all necessary 1099 forms from each client.

Additional Resources

Balance Sheet Sample: Useful for freelancers to track their financial health throughout the year.

Employee Handbook: Review your company's employee handbook for any additional financial benefits or deductions you may be eligible for.

Personal Financial Statement: Helps in organizing your finances and preparing for tax season.

NDA Generator: If you need to protect sensitive information while sharing financial data with accountants or tax preparers.

Invoice Generator: For freelancers, maintaining accurate invoices ensures all income is reported correctly.

Conclusion

Using your last paystub to file taxes can be straightforward if you follow these steps and utilize the right tools. Paystub generators, financial statements, and proper documentation are key to ensuring your tax return is accurate and complete. By staying organized and informed, you can simplify the tax filing process and avoid any last-minute stress.

Remember, always double-check your information and consult a tax professional if you have any doubts or complex financial situations. Happy filing!

#How to Use Your Last Paystub to File Taxes #paystub generator #paystub creator #free paystub generator #paystub generator free #pay stub generator #1099 MISC Form #Balance Sheet Sample #Employee Handbook #Personal Financial Statement #nda generator #Invoice generator

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joeloverture · 1 year ago

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morning cardio | dbf!j.m. x f!reader

masterlist | updates blog pairing: dbf!neighbor!joel miller x f!reader summary: [no outbreak] your neighbor and dad's longtime buddy catches you sneaking back home after an underwhelming hook-up. you want more — he provides. warnings: (18+ mdni) dbf!neighbor!joel, age gap (23/50), reader has a bad relationship with her father, reader's father is overly strict, reader hooks up with an oc, dirty talk, soft!dom joel, degradation, praise, thigh riding, 1 spank, titty slapping, daddy kink, exhibitionism but nobody sees, almost caught, heavy petting, misogyny for sexiness that joel doesn't actually believe in since he's a sweetheart [no use of y/n] word count: 3.7k a/n: watch me almost exclusively post dbf joel. watch me. also, mind the tags, they've changed slightly since i posted the teaser. this was supposed to be a series. this is no longer the case bc i'm indecisive. sorry.

Mistake number one: your eyes are crusted shut with the mascara you’d forgotten to wipe off.

Mistake number two: the bed you wake up in is not your own.

Mistake number three: sleeping with your neighbor.

Rubbing your mascara-sealed eyes, you blink yourself into consciousness and instantly regret it. There’s a moment of stillness, time stretching as you take in the room underneath the swelling orange sunlight. The window is cracked just enough to give you a glimpse at the world outside — birds chirping, sprinklers spritzing, cars crunching gravel as they pull out of the driveway. Surrounding the narrow, rumpled bed is a graveyard of orphaned socks. A box fan whirrs in the corner. The room had felt much cleaner past midnight when it was only the yellowed street lamp outside shining through the window. Then you spot the digital clock on the cluttered bedside table reads 6:10, ten minutes later than you’d wanted to be awake for, and time returns to its regular pace.

Your heart kicks awake in your chest, veins going cold. You kick the sheets off of your sweaty body, roll out of bed, and stumble two steps before planting your feet on the carpet below. Even that isn’t enough to stir your hookup. Dylan Andrews.

It’d seemed like a good enough idea at the time. Both of you were home for spring break. Both of you had flirted at the block party with each other. He was only decent-looking and mediocre with his hands, but you needed a break from spending another night in your childhood bedroom. What better way to do it than with a dick appointment?

Again. It’d seemed like a good enough idea at the time. Sneaking out underneath the nose of your strict, tough-as-nails dad was the easy part. Sneaking back in? Less easy. And to make matters worse, you were already ten minutes behind.

Shit.

You tiptoe across the room, naked as the day you were born, and stuff your underappreciated lingerie into your backpack. Without even putting your panties or bra on, you hop into your shorts and wrestle with your hoodie. By the time you’re out of Dylan’s room, it’s 6:12.

The difference between your dad and Dylan’s mom? She doesn’t give a shit what side of town Dylan wakes up on or how much alcohol is sloshing around in his system as long as he’s safe. You’re not the first girl to do the walk of shame out of Ms. Andrews' generic McMansion house, and you’re far from the last.

She’s downstairs in front of the coffee maker, still wearing her pajamas and doing a Dollar General crossword when you slip past her kitchen unnoticed. The door clangs shut behind you, and you figure she must see you walking down the cul-de-sac.

Your dad always leaves for work at 6:45 after a freezing cold shower and a steaming cup of black coffee for balance. You can only hope his shower ran a little late and that he isn’t at the dining room table already. Cramming two steps into one, you continue with your beeline down the awakening street.

You’re followed home by the mailboxes and flower beds, the pebbles you kick with every step. You’re almost to the property line, prepared to make a mad dash to your front door when you hear the faint call of your name. You skid to a stop, and turn to face the source: the craftsman-style house next door.

And there he is – Joel Miller, sitting on one of the cushioned chairs of his front porch in nothing but his sleep shorts and a t-shirt, legs spread as wide as the chair can accommodate. There’s a smug, knowing look on his face, one that says I’ve caught you. See how you can get out of this.

It’s been a long time since you’ve been face to face with Joel — Mr. Miller. You’d think you’d see him more often, with him being your dad’s buddy and your neighbor, but it’s been since summer. You’re sure he must be having the time of his life by joining your just got laid parade.

“You’re up awful early,” he calls, beckoning you up the driveway with a come-hither movement of his fingers. Leaving your dignity at the curb, you pad up the yard to his porch, climbing one of the stairs to lean against the gutter that feeds into his shrubbery. Pollen and moss is scattered across the wooden deck, surrounding a package that he hasn’t bothered to pick up yet. His guitar is off to the side, propped up against the doorway of the house. You wonder if he’d been playing when he’d seen you walking by.

Joel’s covered for you before, briefly and sparingly. Taken the fall for the half-empty bottle of fireball in your dresser even though he’d never go within ten feet of that shit, blamed it on himself for accidentally leaving it behind after fixing a wheel that had jumped off track for you. Even though your dad had chewed him out for drinking on the job, he’d still managed to sneak it back to you with the wise words of hiding it in a sock next time. You’d been two months past your twenty-first when that had happened, and maybe Joel had pitied you after realizing how authoritarian his friend was.

You aren’t as sure if he’ll pity you now.

“Needed some fresh air,” you defend lamely, hands hanging limp by your sides.

“Needed some cock?” he corrects, and his bluntness makes you choke. He seems relaxed for the words that just came out of his mouth, fingers drumming on his impossibly large thighs, a playful smirk resting on his lips.

You sputter, “No! Jesus, what the hell–”

“I got eyes, hun. Saw you leave that Andrews kid’s place. Clearly he didn’t stick it to ya that good if you’re still walkin’ steady,” he comments. His head tilts.

“Joel,” you hiss, eyes flitting to your dad’s house next door. He seems to read your mind, his smirk widening.

“Wonder what your pops would think. Bet I have a pretty good idea. His little angel, sneakin’ around and whorin’ herself out.” He clicks his tongue at you. “A damn shame.”

Heat spools low in your stomach and down to your unsatisfied center. You wish you’d worn darker colored shorts instead of the flimsy gray things you have on. There’s no barrier of your panties to stop yourself from leaking all over them, and with the way Joel’s looking at you, eyes dark and sly, you’re wishing there was.

“Can’t even imagine what you’re gettin’ up to at that college ‘a yours. Bet you had five guys inside of ya all at once, and I sure ain’t talkin’ about burgers, hun.” He lounges back in his chair, watching you.

You feel yourself gush. Heat burns in your thighs, and they rub together on instinct, seeking to extinguish that brimming ache between your legs. You bunch your hands in the fabric of your sweatshirt and can’t stop yourself from squirming underneath his gaze. It’s not like you’ve never thought about this, this with him of all people when you’re underneath your covers and your hand finds the warm junction between your thighs. Always unattainable. Always just out of reach.

You whisper again, “Joel,” but this time, it comes out as more of a moan. Humiliation warms your cheeks and chest, forming a different kind of pit in your stomach.

“Hmmmm?” Joel hums at you with a raised brow. He’s casual, indifferent, almost. But then his eyes flicker up and down, stopping at the wet patch smeared across the front of your shorts, the way your thighs press tight, tensing before letting go. “Ah. A little slut shamin’ gets you all riled up, hun?” That tears a whimper from you. He does that stupid come hither motion again, and like a lost dog, you listen. Standing in front of him, you feel completely, utterly exposed.

He adjusts himself in his chair, and you swallow the building lump in your throat when you see his bulge hardening. It sends another zap of heat to your core, and then another, more surprised one when his hand goes up to grab at your tit. Your breath catches as he thumbs one of your hardened nipples. A triumphant noise echoes out of him. “Braless, too?” His other hand goes down to your shorts, playing with the waistband. “Prancin’ around in these short, skimpy things, too. Practically giving the whole neighborhood a free peep show.”

His hand slides lower. Lower. Pans over to the crease of your thigh and then his thumb is planting over your clit, rubbing only once before he pulls away. “Messy pussy. Bet you stained the guys sheets.”

You’re quiet, staring at him, his wicked fucking expression, those hands that look like sin itself. You bite the inside of your cheek.

“Ah. Poor baby. All this effort and you didn’t even get to come.” He just looks at you. Unmoving. Not doing a single damn thing to get you there.

“Please, Joel,” you whisper, embarrassed by the gritty need already embedded into your voice when he’s hardly even touched you.

And he’s still wearing that wolfish look, that tainted-with-intention gleam in his eyes that tells you he knows exactly what you do want when he asks, “What? What do you want?” He licks his lips, a fleeting moment.

You look over your shoulder, at the rising street. Anyone could have their windows cracked. Anyone could hear you confess on this porch. Still, you murmur, “I… I want you to make me come, Joel.” Your voice shivers a little bit along with the stroke of wind that wisps against the backs of your thighs.

His brows raise together, now. His head tips forward. “What was that? A little louder. You know, my ears really ain’t the sharpest these days…”

Fucking bastard.

“I want,” you say again, fighting to stop your voice from wavering, to keep it not too loud but not too quiet. “you to make me come.”

Joel sucks on his teeth for a second. “Ohhh. Now I don’t think that’s really fair, hun.” He gives you a mockingly sad look.

“Why?” you ask, and you know you sound as whiny as a petulant child. But he’d been correct earlier. You put in all of this effort, sneaking out for a thrilling night that had turned into something more like two sweaty bodies moving together and only one of them feeling good from it. You want to feel good. You’re tired of looking at the right and the wrong. Joel’s sitting in front of you, his thumb still smelling like your arousal; that’s what’s right.

“You’re out here breakin’ all the rules. Shouldn’t be rewarding you for that, sweetheart. Besides, it’s a little fucked up, dontcha think? Makin’ you come all over me while your pops, my buddy, is none the wiser gettin’ ready for work next door?” His vulgarity only weakens you even more, pussy clenching and begging to be filled. You’re about to protest again when he cuts in, “But that doesn’t mean I can’t help ya out.”

Your heart pedals in your chest, eager and wanting. But Joel, instead of getting up and elbowing you inside like you expect, stays right where he is. He pats one of his splayed thighs, the grin on his face only widening. Your face contorts. Joel hears your question before you ask.

“What? Never humped someone’s leg before? With how much of a bitch in heat you’re actin’ right now, I’m surprised.” You can feel the shock on your face plain as day. Joel jerks his head down to his thigh, egging you on. “Better hurry up if you want my help, sweetheart. Pretty sure your dad’s about to get goin’, and I sure don’t have all day, either.”

The rapidly shrinking part of yourself that isn’t consumed with desire tells you to take a step back. That anyone, God forbid, even the Adlers across the street could witness this. Talk about a free peep show.

You think of the alternative: sneaking back into your house with a hope and a prayer that your dad won’t find you, backpack over your shoulder and shoes on, as you climb the stairs back to your bedroom. Open up your Joel-advised dresser drawer of things your dad says you shouldn’t have and pull out your vibrator. Do the same old hassle of a routine, desperately trying to make yourself come. Reach an unfulfilling peak.

Or… take what Joel’s offering you. Risks and all.

You take a tentative step forward, glaring at Joel when he chuckles because of your hesitance, and plop yourself down on his thigh. The pressure against your clit immediately pulls a whimper from you. His big hands fix themselves on your hips, holding tight, but not too tight as to hold you captive against him. There’s still the faint existence of the Joel you’ve always known, considerate and sweet and all southern gentleman, that exists behind the guise of his dominance.

You nestle your head into the crook of his neck, breathing heavy against him as you get a slow start to grinding your hips on his thigh. Although your movements are tentative, uncertain in nature, your head is already going fuzzy.

“Bet you’re only this wet cause that boy already put a new load in your dishwasher.” You scoff at him in disbelief — both at how much more wet it gets you, and how foul his words are. He chooses then to jerk you forward by the hips. You cry out as your pussy drags along the thick expanse of his thigh, clit catching on the bunched up fabric of your rumpled shorts.

“Zip it, you fuckin’ hussy. Ain’t a damn soul in this neighborhood that wants to wake up to you sobbin’ while gettin’ off on this thigh.” One of his hands drifts back to squeeze at the flesh of your ass. You hear the spank before you feel it, a sting that echoes and sticks right between your legs. He’s effortlessly strung a barbed wire of humiliation around your body. The lack of power makes your thighs clamp down around his, and you can’t tell if you crave more of it or despise it.

Unable to decide which, you loudly, exaggeratedly moan into his ear, still rocking down on his lap. It resounds through the neighborhood, the springboard roofs ricocheting you coquettish noises down the street and through the flowerbeds. A spooked crow lifts off of the power lines behind you, and you hear it squawk as its wings beat and carry it away.

Joel cocks his head at you, brow raised. “So it’s not just your legs that have a problem stayin’ shut. It’s your nasty mouth, too.” His hands migrate up your sides to your tits, which jostle with every flighty movement across his thigh. Before you know what he’s doing, he tweezes at your nipples in a way that makes you melt into him, forehead falling flat against his neck. And then he lands a hard smack across your chest, pleasure with a bite. Your hips jolt. “Behave for daddy before I make you walk next door draggin’ a snail trail behind ya.”

You know he doesn’t mean your real dad. A new rush of heat settles in your stomach, tightening your cunt from an ache to an insatiable thrumming that only Joel can solve. “Fuck,” you almost shout, but end up muffling into his skin with an open-mouthed kiss. He sighs, adjusting under you. The change in angle on your clit makes you whimper, especially when you feel his hardened length smushed against the outside of your thigh.

Your hand goes down to grip it, to participate in the push and pull, the cat and mouse, but he shakes his head, pulling it out of the way. He holds you by the small of your back, urging you to keep rubbing on him. “You’re lucky I’m even givin’ you my thigh,” he spits. “Ain’t gonna let you play chutes and ladders tryna make me come when I know damn well where that hand was last night.”

“Daddy,” you pout at him, lower lip jutting out.

He only shakes his head. “Don’t start.”

Whining in agitation, you manage to school yourself into behaving like he’d told you to. Every grind of your hips welcomes pleasure, beckons it, activates the porch light inside of you that invites it inside. You go limp against Joel as he guides you back and forth, and even limper when he tightens the muscle underneath your soaking core. Your hands anchor themselves on his broad shoulders, nails carving into his skin through the flimsy material of his shirt. He hisses underneath you, a break in his seemingly titanium resolve. You feel yourself getting closer, heat wreathing around your stomach, cunt clenching.

In your house, the foyer light flickers on.

Your hips stall over Joel’s as you see your dad’s backlit silhouette moving around in the foyer. Likely sliding on his shoes, patting his pockets for his wallet and his work phone…. You have two minutes at best.

Joel’s eyes follow your distracted line of vision. His amused chuckle warms the back of your neck. “Oughta hurry up if you don’t wanna get caught. Your old man would be in for a rude awakening, headin’ to work and finding his precious little girl fuckin’ my leg like a whore,” he murmurs.

He bounces his leg underneath you, and you bite back the needy cry that threatens to slip out. It feels so good, too good for you to think about anything other than the haze of arousal and pleasure that hovers over your head like a perpetual fog. You return to grinding down on him, hips pumping with a greater, renewed speed. “Attagirl,” Joel croons at you, and the hand at the small of your back presses harder, pushing you up and down his thigh.

Short, strained breaths of yours meet the morning air, eyes pinned on the rectangular window. It’s a golden-washed reminder of how wrong this is. Your dad would blow a gasket, see red, breathe fire at you if he knew exactly what was happening just a few feet away from his front yard.

But you forget all about that when Joel’s calloused fingers cup your chin, nudging you to look at him. His eyes are all pupil, darkened with something like starvation, something like want. “Don’t look at him. Look at me,” he coaxes, and he bounces his thigh again.

You’re close, you can feel it. He can feel it, too, in the way that your thighs fasten around his, your cunt rocking on him as your fervor makes the whole front porch shake and shudder. Tossing your hips back and forth, you wanted it, but now? Now you need it. Your stomach tightens, your legs shivering below you as your cunt gushes all over both of your shorts. “That’s it, baby, come on me like you were beggin’ to. ‘S alright, nice and easy for daddy, mhm?” He tenses his thigh one final time, and you lurch over that edge. “Gooood girl,” he hums as your cunt flutters against his leg. “You’re a daredevil, aren’t you?” he asks, jerking his head toward your house.

You figure you must be, after what you just did.

You’d planned on staying there, riding it out and trembling against his warm chest. But the garage cranks open. You jolt off of Joel’s lap, damn near teleporting across the porch with how fast you move. Joel smirks at you, crossing his unfucked leg over his freshly fucked one, where you’d rubbed your cum all over his skin until it’d glistened. The sight warms your stomach all over again, but it doesn’t last – nerves spasm in your ribcage as your dad ducks out into the driveway.

You fumble with your shorts, pulling them down and crossing your hands in front of the obvious stain on the gray fabric. Your dad squints across the yard, cupping a hand over his eyes. “Miller?” He calls your name shortly after, and you straighten. “You’re up early, kiddo.”

You open your mouth, on the precipice of a lie that you know won’t be good. It’ll come out unsteady, dishonest, and uneven.

Joel points at the package at the foot of his doorstep. “My toolbox got sent to yours,” he explains. “Damn postal. ‘Bout as good as the Boston Post Road these days. But your kid’s got me covered. Raised her right.”

For the second time, Joel Miller covers for you. You have no idea where this leaves you, standing under your dad’s scrutinizing gaze. With your cum cooling and sticking to your folds the same way it’s cooling and sticking to his leg, Joel knows your secret. And he’s keeping it.

Your dad only gives a shallow nod, looking between the two of you. “Well,” he hooks a hand back at his truck. “I gotta head off to work.” He shifts on his feet, this time pointing to you. “And you head back inside, kiddo. Too early for you to be up and movin’.” Of course it is.

You stare at the ground, the pollen and stray leaves below your feet. Finally, you settle on a nod. Shallow and halfhearted, much like his. Your dad, satisfied, retreats back into the garage. You hear the truck engine come to life.

“You heard the man,” Joel says. You tighten your fists, moving to step away, but the way Joel’s eyes glimmer has you loitering. He lowers his voice. “See you soon, daredevil.”

That damned nickname. “How do you know I’ll be back?” you retort under your breath.

He shrugs. “I’m sure there’ll be more… ‘packages’.”

You blame the heat in your body on the rising sun, sweat clinging to the back of your neck as you plod off through the front yard. There’s only one thought in your head as your dad pulls out and you close the garage. Mr. Miller can’t happen again.

Mistake number four: thinking you’re telling the truth.

#vetty's words 𓇢𓆸 #joel miller smut #joel miller x reader #joel miller x f!reader #joel miller/reader #joel miller fanfic #joel miller fic

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vervepain · 4 months ago

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Kara: *cries at ASPCA ad*

Lena: *on the phone to the ASPCA* Yes, hypothetically how much money would you need to give every dog…ahem on Earth…a little snack, a teddy bear, and a person to tell them they are special?

ASPCA: …

Kara: Don’t forget the cats!

Lena: *on the phone* I’m going to start saying numbers and you stop me when I’m close.

Kara: And the turtles!

Lena: *on the phone* *for the dogs* 4.6 billion

Kara: I love you, and your net worth. But mostly you.

Head canon: Kara decides to write a fluff piece about the National City Humane Society. When she gets in contact with their press person they are so excited to tell her all about the new shelter they are building with donations from their generous donor.

Kara asks: who is this donor?

The PR rep explains the donor prefers to remain anonymous. But for the last two years has donated the total cost to run the shelter, plus money for an expansion project, and the seed fund to start a hearty investment portfolio.

Kara decides to try to track down this anonymous Samaritan. After weeks of chasing leads, finding dead ends, and a couple lucky breaks she finds it. A name buried on an addendum to a memo beneath a pile of balance sheets she physically dug out of a dumpster. What name?

LENA LUTHOR.

Kara Danvers pushes her glasses up her nose and storms into Lena’s office.

Lena has no defense. Two years ago at movie night that ad for the ASPCA came on and Kara started crying. She called the ASPCA in the morning and they didn’t believe she was offering them a literal billion dollars to help all those “little guys trying their darndest” as Kara had called them.

So then Lena called the National City Humane Society. Like I said, Lena had no defense…but two weeks later she had a Kryptonian girlfriend.

#supercorp #kara x lena #lena luthor #kara danvers #supercorp au

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literaryvein-reblogs · 5 months ago

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Sup Currently im writing a military themed story and I want to know some useful phrases and (maybe???) some links to useful thingies. I am wrapping my head around researching way too much but I dont want to make my writing unrealistic T-T So any advice for that?

Some Military Vocabulary

terminology and slang

Aide-de-camp - a member of the personal staff of a general officer, acting as his confidential assistant

Blue Falcon - Someone who betrays you (buddy f’er)

Clandestine - Military activities intended to be kept secret or concealed

Chamade - Drumbeat of surrender

Chest candy - Decorations or awards on an officer’s dress uniform

Dream sheet - Job and assignment preference worksheet for cadets

Élan - A high-spirited morale usually associated with exceptionally self-confident and elite units

Expectant - A soldier who is expected to die from their injuries

Feu de joie - French phrase meaning 'fire of joy' describing a firing of muskets one after another, closely timed to make a continuous noise, in celebration

Garrison - A a military post, especially one that is permanently established; the troops stationed at a military post

Ground zero - Point of origin for violent activity (such as where a bomb hits); specific point directly below explosion of a nuclear weapon

Hangfire - Wait for orders

Infantry - A branch of an army whose soldiers are organized, trained and equipped to fight on foot

Insurrection - The process of rising up to challenge one’s own government

Jeep - Soldier just out of basic training

Meat wagon - Ambulance

Mess hall - Hall where service members eat their meals

Moonbeam - Flashlight

NVD - Night Vision Device

Oxygen thief - Recruit who talks too much

Sky blossom - Parachute

Smoke - To punish a soldier excessively for a minor infraction

Soup sandwich - A situation that was poorly planned or has gone terribly wrong

WTHR - Weather

Zone of fire - A particular area where a unit delivers or is about to deliver fire

Some Military & Warfare Tropes

False Flag Operation: Attacking another nation and making it look like someone else did it.

Peeling Potatoes: The commanding officer makes subordinates peel potatoes when they get out of line.

Sealed Orders: Sensitive orders aren't relayed until the last moment to prevent intel leaks.

War Is Hell: The work depicts war in a negative light, such as emphasizing that people get killed in wars and demonstrating the trauma suffered by those forced to endure the bloodshed.

We Have Reserves: This particular military doesn't consider it a big deal to have soldiers die so long as replacements are easy to obtain.

Sources: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 ⚜ More: Word Lists ⚜ Writing Resources PDFs

Here are some references, do go through the links because there are so many more interesting ones I wasn't able to include here. Finding that balance when researching a story can definitely be a challenge. As you write, I think one thing that could help is to keep in mind your target audience. Would the flow be disrupted by adding a certain detail? Would it be better just to exclude it? For instance, including jargon or terminology that your readers may not be familiar with, but might be necessary for your story/character. So find that balance to retain it but in a way that includes some sort of explanation for your reader (e.g., through another character or through the narrator). And here are some tips to help guide you with the tropes in this genre (and the genre, in general). Hope this helps with your writing!

Update. DOD Dictionary of Military and Associated Terms ⚜ Naval Abbreviations ⚜ YouTube Channel: Military-Related. Thank you to @anumberofhobbies for these additional references!

#on writing #writing tips #tropes #writeblr #writing advice #writers on tumblr #literature #writing reference #dark academia #spilled ink #writing prompt #creative writing #writing inspiration #writing ideas #light academia #writing resources

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retroaria · 7 months ago

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✮⋆˙ itoshi sae

~ how he'd be after a break up :(

⸝⸝ written for aria's 1.5k follower event! ‧₊˚✩彡

⸝⸝ i don’t see sae as being a cheater or a bad partner in general so (not to be cliche but) the breakup would probably be because of him having a poor work/life balance and his career getting in the way.

⸝⸝ after the breakup he’d totally immerse himself in his career, kinda like subconscious avoidance of his feelings on the matter. you guys would go full no contact. eventually it would catch up to him and hit him like a truck.

⸝⸝ it would start with little things. he’d miss the smell of you on his sheets, he’d miss having your things in certain places: your shoes at his door, your food in the fridge, your clothes in his closet. he’d realize that it’s already been over a month since you’ve left and he still hasn’t taken your pictures off his night stand, or your shampoo bottle out of his shower.

⸝⸝ he'd find himself longing again for the home you guys had together. he misses the comfort of going to bed next to someone and waking up the next morning, knowing you're still there next to him before he even opens his eyes.

⸝⸝ he ponders on what he had taken for granted. the lunches you'd make for him, your face in the stands during his practice and games. sae had been alone for so long before you, he never thought he'd find himself hating it if ever you were to leave - but here he is, grasping so desperately to mere remnants of you.

⸝⸝ he'd take it out on himself. he could've put in the effort to better balance his life, the only two things he's ever loved are you and soccer, surely it couldn't have been that hard to keep both successfully. he chalks it up to another of his short comings.

⸝⸝ on a select few nights he finds himself hovering over your contact in his phone, wondering what he would say to you, what you would say to him, if any of it would matter or give him any form of closure.

⸝⸝ he allows himself to yearn and experience the sadness of the situation once it truly dawns upon him, but no matter what he has sworn to not beg you to take him back.

⸝⸝ decides that if your paths are meant to cross again, then they will. he cares for you and wouldn't want to put you through the turmoil of being strung along his hectic life again, especially not after he chose to leave you. he believes you deserve better than that.

⸝⸝ sae didn't meet you while specifically looking for a partner, and he doesnt intend to try making his way into the dating scene after you.

⸝⸝ if you two were to see each other by chance after the breakup, he would be respectful about it. he'd let you lead the conversation, knowing he'd have a hard time not bringing up the separation, or how much he's missed you.

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bluemerakis · 8 months ago

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┌── ˚*❀*̥˚ ─── ˚*̥❀*˚ ──┐

✐ᝰ bluemerakis

┗━━• ❃ ° •° ❀ °• ° ❃ •━━┛

❝ Scout’s Honour ❞

⤷ Word count: a lot

!! 18+ ONLY !!

Pls imagine he has his sexy beard in these gifs

═════════════════

WARNINGS:

Billy x fem!reader, cussing, very mild angst, smut, fingering, oral f receiving, unprotected sex p in v (wrap it pls), cock-warming, lmk if I forgot any

SYNOPSIS:

Billy slips into the apartment in the early hours of a new day, after having abandoned you for a few nights in order to tend to business. You never minded a busy schedule, so as long as the time spent at your side balanced it out. However, he’s been slacking in his efforts, and you’re not one to be brushed aside whenever things got inconvenient.

He attempts to curb your anger with his god-given charm and bedroom generosity, and you’re almost tempted to forgive him—almost. But after a very generous, very convincing tongue to your cunt, and a good few of his inches stuck within you, you’re eventually compelled to give him another chance.

═════════════════

The creak of the apartment door plucked your consciousness from the chasm of sleep. Your eyes split open without a breath to spare, your body still fuelled by the pent up adrenaline of the past shit-filled week. The door made a muffled click of closure before a sequence of heavy thuds pulled forth from you a more urgent sense of alertness. You lifted your head in a swift motion to spare a groggy glance over your shoulder, your agitation laid to rest by the scene of your beloved intruder traipsing across the dim, open-plan apartment—but the annoyance surrounding his prolonged absence quickly took its stead.

What was usually a temporary work setback that would only keep Billy away for a night or two had turned into a painfully drawn out week of his absence—without the courtesy of a notice, might you add. Not that you’d ever admit it to the bugger, but the atmosphere of his apartment had been unbearably dull without his effortless, colourful charisma, and his endearment for the word cunt.

You hadn’t minded that Billy was a busy man, and in any case, you’d made no official obligations to one another that would warrant your feelings. However, the bastard’s pattern of disappearances and reappearances without an explanation had started to wear you thin, and quite frankly, you’d started to feel like cheap company.

You birthed a groan at your premature departure from sleep and turned your head away from Billy’s wandering figure—you’d begrudgingly missed him, but you could hardly be arsed to entertain the questions of his whereabouts when exhaustion so perilously perched itself on your eyelids and burnt your eyes teary for as long as they remained open. This was one of very few occasions where sleep really could solve the problem, so you manoeuvred your body between the sheets and wrapped your arms around your pillow, trapping it against your cheek—a forceful plea to indulge your need for a longer rest.

Your eyes fluttered closed, not needing much prompting, especially with the added bonus of ignoring Billy’s presence entirely. But the voice you’d violently craved throughout your desolate nights traversed the room as a deep echo, plucking forward your consciousness once more.

“D’I wake ya, Love?”

You burrowed your face into the pillow and heaved a frustrated sigh. “It’s either that or you’re talking to a bloody ghost,” you pushed out groggily, your voice rough—breached by the night’s sleep—and muffled by the satin pillowcase.

You heard Billy chuckle half-heartedly from across the room. “D’ya sleep all right?” He asked—an attempt to brush off your foul mood. On a good day, which were most days, he could easily drink up and reciprocate your wit. Clearly, whatever he’d abandoned the bed—and you—for had taken its toll. You didn’t know whether he’d slept at all, when he was out doing whatever it was he so often left to do.

The initial agreement of your whole relationship—if you could call it that—with Billy, was never to ask questions about what he did, where he did them, and why he’s doing them. I don’t want nobody perched on me fuckin’ shoulder, houndin’ me around and playin’ devil’s advocate all bloody day until me head is done in. No babysittin’, no collar round me neck, no fuckin’ fuss, eh? Those were more or less the terms Billy had set forward, but your relationship had evolved since that point. The more nights your bodies had spent entangled, there came a mutual realisation that the company you both provided one another had become more like a deep-rooted, carnal need, rather than a impish way to pass time. Billy was pretty good in getting his cut of it from you, but had been failing to reciprocate the effort on his side. It felt like exploitation, and you’d just about had enough of that.

You came to it eventually, shrugging off the chain of thought that had shackled your brain. “Haven’t slept nearly enough,” you offered curtly.

There was a brief pause from Billy’s side, before he asked, “somethin’ been keepin’ yer up?” Your attention latched onto the hesitant undertone of his voice—barely noticeable, but undeniably there. He was far too good at his reserved facade, but you’d long since trained your ear to tell the truth men just like him would not. “Bet both me bollocks it’s tha’ cooing shit machine tha’ done set up base on the window outside. Annoying li’l fucker—you give me the word, Love, and I’ll evict the plumy wanker.”

His avoidant rambling triggered an involuntary clench of your jaw; you could almost envision the smug, lopsided smirk hitching up the corner of his lips. The moment of silence that had preceded his words made perfect sense—it was an acknowledgement of the truth he refused to directly admit; a rhetorical question he very much knew the answer to. He was no dumb man; he knew he’d gotten his stylish boots stuck ankle-deep in a fat pile of shit with you.

You weren’t nearly sleep-sober enough to entertain his bold query, so in an attempt to purge your exhaustion, you peeled back the comforters and finally sat yourself up to face him. Billy’s head tilted as he drank in your appearance, his expression glazed with the apartment’s dawn gloom, but you could make out the ruffled, jagged peaks of the hair crowning the top of his head—clearly ploughed through by one too many stressed hands.

“And there’s me dashin’ lady. Sincerest top o’ the mornin’ to you, Love,” he said, inching a few steps closer to your corner of the apartment. He hesitated beside the dining room table when his words didn’t enlighten your expression and hummed dramatically. “Knackered, are we?”

Around you, the warm glow of dawn began to creep its way through the crevices of the curtained windows, casting the apartment with an ethereal glow that almost made Billy’s figure appear angelic from where he stood at the other end of the modest quarters. The burly shape of his black-coated silhouette was traced with a line of liquid fire, perfectly encapsulating the true beauty of his essence when he was vulnerable enough to show it—and a beautiful soul he was, minus his impulsive need to play the absentee partner.

You leaned your back against the headboard of the bed, your knees retracting into your abdomen while your arms wrapped around them to trap them against you. “I am knackered,” you mocked matter-of-a-factly. “What was that you asked earlier—has something been keeping me up? Boy, what a question that is, Billy,” you said thinly, and Billy’s eyes narrowed in preparation as the nonchalant smirk was plucked from his lips.

“Well, for starters, these last few nights, the bed has been unbearably cold and empty. Now, I used to share it with a man to keep me all warm and toasty, but that same man? He’s one heck of a busy fucker. He’s always goddamn working—says he’s got his own little enterprise going on, but I’m not allowed to know the first thing about that—so who knows if it’s at all true? He could be out getting a full-course serving of pussy for all I know, while I’m left behind to keep his bed warm until he’s had his external fill of it and comes running back.”

Your convicted man hovered about, the usual furrow in his expression no deeper than usual, but you could tell by the faint tilt of his head that he’d been listening to your rant intently, and the squirming motion of his lower lip implied a tense biting. You squinted your eyes at one of his eyebrows that seemed to be thickened at the arch; you didn’t doubt that it was from the mean kiss of a fist, since he tended to collect enemies and wounds like medals.

“Not to mention the countless times he’s crawled into bed with unexplainable injured littered across his body, and I’m to pretend they’re not existent as I run my hands over them,” you added pointedly. “He’s a strange, mysterious man, and he’s gotten far too comfortable leaving me alone for nights on end and demanding everything his way the moment he returns.” Your brows furrowed sarcastically. “Now, what do you suppose I do about a dick like that?”

“Ya ought to give it a good ol’ wank and a tickle o’ the balls, and just before his shit hits the ceiling, yer give the tip o’ his knackers a diabolical twisty,” Billy suggested flippantly, his hands raised to mimic the theoretical scene.

“Cut the Billy-bullshit,” you snapped. “It’s bloody well been a week since I last saw you—and the shit you do is so goddamn sketchy, I had no fucking idea if you were even still alive. You couldn’t have even said goodbye, or, I don’t know, told me where the hell you were going to fuck off to?”

Billy’s hands were spread open into a scoff of a gesture. “Oi, gimme a bit ‘o credit there, will yer, Love? No Supe cunt has managed to put me in a grave for a good kip just yet.” He torqued his chin in that characteristic manner of his. “And I ain’t goin’ out without a nuclear bang; you’d have seen me face all over that shite news channel with me bloody arm stuck half way up that Homelander’s Comp V arsehole—like a good ol’ rectal exam.”

Confusion took the stead of annoyance at his mention of Comp V, but you were far more interested in the mention of Supes and the Homelander himself. This was the first time Billy had ever let on a fraction of information about who he was routinely involved with every time he disappeared—a royal fuckup, no doubt. You’d always been a determined girl with a knack for satisfying your curious itch, and that combination didn’t bode well for Billy’s need of discretion.

You’d have been a slow fool to question who Homelander was. While you’d never personally taken interest in the leader of the so-called gifted band of heroes who practically governed the state, you’d heard of enough incidents to know that The Seven were far from do-gooders. So, just what the hell would a man like Billy be doing with them? He was no angel—gods, you knew that, but he was not nearly tainted enough to sit and share bread at the table of the Superheros. Comp V, however? That term didn’t place among your knowledge. You wanted to—needed to know more.

You leant away from the bed frame and tilted your head with blunt scrutiny. “What business do you have with a freaky man-Supe like Homelander?” You asked sceptically. “Have you got friends up in higher places that I don’t know about? And what the hell is Comp V?”

Billy’s expression seem to buffer over your words, his shoulders lightly tilting from side to side as his brain took to working around his apparent slip up. “Ne’ermind you that, Love,” he averted eventually, reaching up a hand to swipe a quick scratch across his bearded chin. “Nothin’ to pick yer pretty li’l brain ‘bout, eh? Now, ya fancy a nosh? Me appetite’s just ‘bout burned through me stomach wall.”

You ignored his divergence, your expression hardening with warning. “You’re going to play games with me at this very early hour of the day, William?”

The use of his full name made Billy’s head tilt back in the slightest manner, his chin lifting with a notion of denial, then acceptance. You watched him furrow his thick brows and offer a low grunt before his head dropped to shrug off the weight of your accusing stare. His gaze remained averted as he rolled his shoulders to shed his signature black coat, and with that, his hard-ass facade he so often paraded under the public’s eye. In here—around you, he was afforded to step out of that role every once in a while.

The forsaken coat made for a gracious reveal of Billy’s fine-toned pair of biceps, the very set that had pinned you against this bed on far too many occasions. But you didn’t allow yourself to entertain those lustful memories for too long, knowing the power they possessed in their ability to completely eradicate any ill-will you currently bore him.

You followed the whisk of his arms as he moved to drape the coat across the nearest chair that bordered the circumference of the circular dining table, then watched as reached across to snatch a half-drained bottle of whiskey from its surface. A low fuckin’ hell split his lips as he sank himself down into the coat-crowed chair, his figure perfectly positioned to oppose you. You heard the whiskey bottle gurgle as he titled the nozzle into his mouth and eagerly began draining the beverage.

You squinted at the nerve of his nonchalance, then pushed on more pettily. “What, nothing to say at all?” You scoffed. “Never could get you to shut up, and now when you talking would actually offer something valuable, you choose to bite your tongue?”

Billy’s adam’s apple dipped with a large gulp before he lowered the whiskey bottle and dragged a brisk thumb across his froth-kissed beard, his hand falling away to offer a lopsided smirk. “I meant what I said when we first started this sweet, little rendezvous o’ ours, Love—no hounding me on me own fuckin’ business,” he warned. “That were our deal, weren’t it?

“Yeah, well , I’m no business man,” you retorted. “But by all means, continue with your shady shit. All I’m saying is give a girl a warning or two from time to time instead of pulling a hit and run in the middle of the night like some prepubescent asshole.”

Not sparing him the luxury of a back and fourth bicker, you sank yourself back into the centre of the bed and laid your head onto the pillow—deliberately facing yourself away from him. You didn’t even care to wrap yourself back underneath the comfort of the sheets, you just needed to shrink away from this conversation.

“Just do what you do best—leave and let me get some sleep, please,” was all you murmured.

“All right, don’t get yer pretty knickers ina twist, now,” Billy soothed.

You heard the distant rustle of fabric, followed by a grunt of effort, before the thump of his boots escalated toward you and then ceased to exist entirely. The clank of the whiskey bottle settled on the bedside table at your head, and a few seconds later, you felt his knuckles graze a light trail from your exposed shoulder down to your elbow—a beckon for your attention, but when you stubbornly kept your head turned the opposite way, his hand retreated.

“Oi, would you just look at me, Love?”

“Can’t,” you said curtly, eyes forcibly screwed shut. “Sleeping. Now, shut your trap.”

You thought that the last of it, until the mattress at your back suddenly gave slight way and Billy sat himself down beside you. His arm reached across your thigh, his hand finding sanctuary at your knee, which was tucked into yourself as you laid in foetus formation. You tried hard to ignore his imposition, but all hope at fashioning that mask began to crumple as his thumb began wiping aimlessly along your skin—a rhythmic back and fourth motion that was oddly soothing to your stress-riddled, exhausted body.

“Look,” he began—it was a tone far more genuine than you’d ever thought him capable of, and it piqued your interest enough to open your eyes. “I know I been doin’ a mighty shite job at stayin’ around here—bein’ with you and all tha’. I ain’t exactly fuckin’ Romeo with a loyal pair o’ bollocks when it comes to relationships, but tell yer what—” he paused to boldly trail his knuckle down your thigh. “I’ll try and do better by yer—I mean tha’, even if I’m a ripe, stinkin’ cunt at times.”

You listened keenly to Billy’s words, but his lack of a clear apology still leered at some petty part of you. The sensational line that he began to draw down the skin of your thigh was an unexpected and very difficult arousal to suppress, your legs subtly drawing together to safeguard the root of all lustful feelings, which began to brew with the threat of bubbling over should he continue his actions. You made the conscious decision not to give into his ministrations so easily, so you pushed aside your growing arousal and decided to focus on the fat lump of unresolved anger still wedged in your throat—a hard pill to swallow.

“Is that supposed to be an apology?” You asked, your field of vision falling into obscurity as you focused on nothing in particular. You could see Billy shift in the very edge of your periphery, the hand tracing patterns on your thigh removed to welcome the cool air of the morning. That same hand didn’t forsake you for long. Within a few seconds, he had a grip on your jaw, his thumb and index finger gently, yet firmly bracketing your chin.

“Spare me a look-see,” he mocked gently, your head forcibly turned up to him. Obliged beyond choice, you allowed yourself a closeup of the man you’d so dearly missed, shifting onto your back to better your view of him.

There was a lot to appreciate about Billy’s face, but for once, it wasn’t the bedroom eyes or the devilish smirk that captured your attention off the bat. Instead, your eyes flickered about the red lines etched across his face—markings that had not been there only a few nights ago, when you’d littered kisses all along the contours of his face. These cuts were fresh, the blood in the trenches of flesh still clotting and very shy of a scab. The discovery caused annoyance to prick at your chest, but you’d long since forsaken anger. If you’d ever managed to successfully talk Billy out of a fight, you’d have cracked a billion dollar contract by now.

“I look dashin’, don’t I?” He poked at your mindless glaring, then his expression softened as he drank in yours—reserved, save the unimpressed scowl. “Me face looks like a slapped arse, I know—bet yer half wishin’ to add another spank to this shitshow, eh?” He chuckled.

“Don’t temp me,” you scoffed, jutting your chin to the side to dislodge his hold on you. “God, did the other guy stick you through a paper shredder?” You shot, then added, “you look like absolute shit, I’m almost starting to believe you get off on a good beating.”

Billy Butcher was a man infamous for modelling a face of cuts and bruises, always managing to enlist a fist to the face through one interaction or the other. He wasn’t a particularly adored man, but you’d never found fault with that—it only meant more him for you, after all. You’d have appreciated that fact more if he’d been around enough.

“Oh, come off it,” he scoffed. The hand that had been robbed of your jaw now moved to swipe an aimless scratch across his beard, his gaze averting to the other end of the apartment with a forlorn expression. You recognised the turmoil in his features as an attempt to find the right words to express his more mushy feelings—not an easy feat for the asture, balls-of-steel Butcher.

“Look, I’ve been a plus-sized arse, I know that. I warned ya, ladies like you don’t stick around men like me for too long. The shit I do? Diabolical stuff, Love. Trust me, yer better off left behind in this bed where none o’ that can pucker up to yer arsehole like a good, mean case of diarrhoea.” He paused to soften his expression. “Just tryin’ to protect ya, is all,” he added softly.

You sniffled softly as you held his earnest stare, then forced yourself to sit up, while Billy simultaneously shifted to give you space. You searched his features for a few seconds and only saw sincerity—an eerily, misplaced emotion on his brute features, so the lump in your throat began to loosen an inch, permitting you swallow with more natural ease.

“Fine,” you relented softly, allowing the tension moulding your features to soften. “All will be forgiven, Billy Butcher—only if you start making an effort to treat me like less of a stress-reliever, and more like a person who wants a genuine connection with you.”

He gave a cheeky cock of his head. “Wha’, ya don’t like the way I blow off steam? Yer cunt ain’t ever said the same thing.”

“Classy,” you scoffed. But not wrong. Billy sniggered with his all-knowing grin.

You shifted yourself onto your knees as you began to make your way across the mattress and towards him. He watched you through a calculating look, his attention making a mischievous dip toward your thighs, so perfectly displayed in your finely cut pyjama shorts. You ignored the innuendo in his wandering eyes, reaching out an arm to clasp his shoulder for support. You leaned onto his broad frame as you meandered your way onto his lap, and his hands found grip at your hips as he aided your movement to straddle his thighs, his eyes hounding your every move.

“Makin’ yerself right at home, eh?” He remarked suggestively.

Once you settled in position, his hands trailed up to your waist to deliver a light squeeze to your neglected body, his palms then settling flat against the exposed stretch of skin deserted by the length of your cropped tank. His touch was warm—almost too warm, like he had something to prove following your very dramatic claim of the cold, lonely nights you’d endured. His hands began dragging a sensual pathway along your frame before settling at the small of your back, where he held you firmly against him—you wouldn’t be shunning him again anytime too soon, as fortified by his hold on you.

You curled your one hand around the nape of Billy’s neck, the other moving to frame the side of his head. “You look worse than a bruised prune,” you said, making a point to press your thumb across the fresh cut forming a vicious, bloodied trough through the arch of his brow. It was almost nasty enough to rival the scar tracing the opposite end of his forehead.

“Oi!” Billy protested, his head momentarily tilting away from you. “Yer got a bloody thumb on ya, fuckin’ hell. Save yer fingering for the little miss cunt down there.”

“Oh trust me, I have,” you retorted, to which a meld of surprise and admiration hitched his brows. You returned your finger to the cut in his brow, more tenderly this time as you felt across the surrounding blotchy purple-yellow bruise and then flitted to caress another cut along his cheek and the opposite temple. “After all, somebody’s got to keep me satisfied when you’re not around, and be thankful it was myself, you dick.”

“All right,” he said. “Fair enough, but I ain’t been dipping me wick in another woman’s wax, Love, so how’s ‘bout we lay off the poncy pouting—make no further delay in the inevitable amalgamation o’ pleasure the both of us are ‘bout to be?” The hands at your back burrowed under the waistband of your shorts and underwear with slick ease—a far too rehearsed and perfected performance. The way his large palms spanned a considerable area of your buttocks never failed to get the groin going; he knew that.

“You’ve got a lot to atone for before you get a good milking,” you warned, hand falling away from his face. Though, Billy’s grip on your ass began to tighten persuasively, and you thought that he could potentially work a few, unfair angles in order to knock off a good amount days from that sex-deprived sentence.

You partially turned your torso to reach for the whiskey bottle he’d set on the bedside table, snatching up the beverage at the neck of the glass. You turned back to him, and his eyes lowered to the drink with a cheeky gleam.

“Fancying a swig at the peek o’ dawn?” he poked. “Been learnin’ a thing or two from me, it seems.”

“It’s for you, obviously,” you said, lifting the nozzle to the wound in his brow. “A toast to your idiocy—cheers.” You tilted the bottle to free the whiskey, and the beverage formed a bubbly waterfall as it cascaded through the reddened cleft in his brow. The amber liquid slithered down his cheek and through the wilderness of hair framing his jaw, then reappeared at the base of his neck to seep into the collar of his floral shirt.

You never did miss the glint of the chain always wrapped around Billy’s neck like a lifelong claim of ownership, adorned with a St Christopher medal—an oath of some sort—which dangled from the steel-linked wreath. And it didn’t escape your notice now as a few of the silver links gleamed with rogue beads of whiskey. It must’ve been a keepsake from a past relationship that had meant a large deal to Billy, but the mystery of its continued existence around his neck was a secret barred from your common knowledge. If it had been a gift from somebody who meant a lot to him, it was a rather odd one—he didn’t particularly strike you as a man who dabbled in religious beliefs of protective saints. Then again, how much did you really know about Billy Butcher?

Either way, Billy had never once spoken about it, despite the many times you’d openly assaulted it’s presence with curious eyes. And there were some things you just would not push, despite your tendency to get brash. So, you’d made peace with the fact that perhaps he would never grant you the key to that particular cell of memories, but you couldn’t honestly say that the implied emotional ties of it all didn’t bother you—and more so, how that influenced his regard for you.

You were plucked from your gnawing thoughts at the sound of Billy sucking air. His teeth were bared as he stifled a guttural wince, and his eye had collapsed closed under the assaulting burn of the whiskey.

“Bloody fuckin’ hell!” he barked, his hands shifting up their position on your arse to rest on the upper curves, gripping them tightly like they were a lifeline for support. “Stings like the kiss of a bloody bee’s arse.”

“Always a pleasure enlisting your colourful poetry.” You retreated with the bottle and burrowed the glass body between your thighs, your hand then returning to aid his face. You swiped your thumb across his closed eye and along his half-drenched face eradicate the film of whiskey. “The prick did a number on you,” you remarked.

Billy tilted his head away from your prying thumb, “Yeah, well, that wanker takes the win on this one,” he insisted. “His lips done looked like a fat cunt by the time I finished him.”

You hummed absentmindedly in response, then felt as one of his hands abandoned the seize on your buttocks to capture your hand at the wrist. He lifted it up into the space between your torsos, his head slightly tilted to fix you with an unwavering stare as he released your wrist and his fingertips began a soft, upward trajectory along the tender skin. Your attention lowered to the work of his fingers as they passed into the gentle rise and hollow of your palm, before each digit diverged to claim a spot between your own fingers, and there they interlocked with near-perfect harmony.

Billy often reminded you that hands were meant to exist in pairs other than your own two when he performed gestures like these. It made sense, really, considering how perfectly fingers could interlink with one another—as though intimacy had always been engraved into the DNA of their skeleton.

He made a gentle twist of his wrist to expose the backside of your hand to his exploitation, and he lowered his lips in an antagonisingly slow manner to press a kiss to your knuckles, all while drinking in the look on your face.

You savoured the warm and gentle flush of his breath against your skin while it lasted; it reinforced the truth of his return and his presence right here before you. The loneliness had gotten overwhelming—a thought that scared you. The moment you admitted that Billy’s absence had an effect on the daily flow of events in your life, you’d have to admit that you’d gotten far too attached to an inevitably temporary situation.

You’d always been vulnerable to emotional investment, forming attachments with anybody you’d been afforded the opportunity to properly flesh out your five senses with; the prolonged touch of handholding, a connecting glance, being adorned with a cologne-scented clothing item of theirs, the sound of their laugh in response to a poorly made joke, or the taste of a shared kiss. It was a gift to love somebody the way you could love, but a curse when cast upon a man like Billy Butcher.

“Oi, Love,” he beckoned to you, the remaining hand on your ass squeezing lightly. You averted your gaze from your intertwined hands to glance at him, his head was slightly tilted as if to gauge a better understanding of the thoughts holding your speech hostage. “S’a weekend, so tell tha’ busy brain o’ yers to take a bloody day off, eh?”

You lifted your chin lightly, your nostrils flaring with a breath to reset your thoughts. “There’s been a lot going on lately, all right?” You said, wriggling your hand within Billy’s in an attempt to shake his hold, but his grip on you only tightened, so you accepted defeat and allowed your hand to fall limp.

He tucked your conjoined hands into the warmth of your thighs, careful not to knock the whiskey bottle. “Got places to be?” He asked insincerely, a mischievous grin peaking through.

“Apparently not,” you answered with a beleaguered sigh.

“Atta girl—right ya are!” Billy praised, then leant his head forward in an attempt to press a kiss to your lips. Your other hand that you had comfortably nestled atop his shoulder moved to intercept the action with an index finger to his lips, which left him with a frown of disappointment.

You pressed your finger into his lips slightly harder than necessary before sliding your fingertip down into the bearded divot of his chin, adorned with the moisture of whiskey. There, you prodded him away meanly, his chin jutting into himself with the motion.

His eyes drooped with disappointment. “Clenchin’ the arsehole outta spite, are we?” He said snarkily because Billy Butcher didn’t like, nor tolerate rejection. You knew that his ego had taken the front-seat, now.

As much as you’d have loved to further emasculate him with some petty banter, you merely reached for the whiskey bottle trapped between your thighs and eagerly brought the liquor to your lips. You managed a few, generous swigs as you held Billy’s stare—a mixture of surprise and respect dancing in his hazel depths. You felt a stray line of whiskey escape your swallow at the corner of your lip, slinking down the side of your jaw. You also noted the way Billy’s attention lowered to that same escapee bead of liquor, his eyes narrowing as though entertaining some internal thoughts of his.

Once you’d decidedly had enough of the whiskey, you lowered the bottle with a hearty swallow and held it out before you to see how much of the drink still remained. There was a decent amount of it left—enough to fill a glass and a half. Satisfied, you brought it back up to hover it over Billy’s head with a sarcastic smile.

“Bottoms up,” you cheered.

“Don’t ya fuckin’—” he was silenced by the stream of whiskey being inevitably poured onto his head and he dropped his chin to avoid a direct assault on his eyes—his generous and voluminous field of hair took the brunt of the force and flattened under the foamy weight of it all. Very little strands of hair were left unmarred by wetness, and the floral patterns in shirt had darkened considerably, mostly at the base of his neck. He released his grip on your hand and ass to run a hand through his hair and across his face. “Fuckin’ son o’ cunt,” he spat, his lashes fluttering with a strained attempt to open his eyes.

You tossed the empty whiskey bottle across the bed, watching as Billy managed to lift his head and part his screwed eyes at last. He was still dripping at the brow, and upon making eye contact with you, he passed an angry swipe of his tongue across his lips with the intent to scold you—but you didn’t give him the chance to fume as you gripped either side of his jaw and forcibly pushed your lips against his.

He made a noise halfway between a grunt and a moan in response to your imposition, but shortly returned the kiss with an aggressive push of his own lips. You lapped up the amalgamation of whiskey and cigar smoke that basted his tongue like a starved street mutt while his large hands came down harshly on your ass—the reprimand that he hadn’t verbally been able to deliver, but you had a feeling that this was only the beginning, and that he’d have well made his point by the end of this heated, physical debate.

You felt the twinge of his nails even through the fabric of your shorts as he gripped you there and pressed your pelvis into him, the act so possessive you felt as though there were an unspoken presence in this room that Billy had a point to prove to. But his hold on you hadn’t come to a standstill—instead, he began to forcibly guide your lower half into a rhythmic dance akin to the waves of the ocean, to and fro, riding the shore of his ever-growing erection. His steering of your hips was godsent, the angle just right enough to provide sensory input to your own sensitive mound. Billy might’ve been self-serving in the pursuit of pleasure when it came to the bedroom, but he never neglected your own needs.

You bit your tongue to stifle the moans threatening to flee your lips. The last thing you needed was for your musical pleasure to whisper directly into Billy’s ear, cooing to his erection. Although you’d already given him exactly what he’d wanted by initiating this steaming mess, you wouldn’t make the entire process that easy for him.

As you were forcibly ground against Billy’s manhood, his kisses grew more impatient and sloppy, his teeth periodically seizing your lips somewhere in the mix. Your hands trailed down his bearded neck—further smearing the whiskey—to take grip at his shoulders before running your hands over the defined muscles, flexed while he worked at kneading your hips, waist and ass in an erratic, patternless desperation. The added stimulation of your skin-on-skin contact with his shoulders seemed to spur him on, his throat reverberating with a gruff moan that you instantly plucked from your shared kiss and shamelessly drank up.

Billy’s one hand shifted from his grip on your ass up to the small of your back; you felt the way his fingertips had grown sticky with the whiskey, puckering your skin every time he made contact and then abruptly moved away. Without warning, his palm curled supportively around your waist and he effortlessly hoisted your body against his navel, the other hand curling across your bottom. He pulled away from the kiss, his thick brows furrowed with focused intent as his eyes flickered all across your features.

“Yer a bleedin’ pain in me arse, y’know tha’?” Billy said in rough, breathy syllables. He then stole one last kiss to silence the stinging retort that was sure to accompany the indignant twist in your expression, and in an effortless motion, he had you on your back in less than a second.

“You aren’t exactly all sunshine and rainbows, either,” you countered through a huff, hands wrapping supportively around the nape of his neck as you suspended yourself from his overhanging frame. Your expression turned challenging. “Besides, you seem to enjoy pain,” you say pointedly, eyes flickering to the gash in his brow. “So I’m actually quite on-brand company, don’t you think?”

He gave a relenting torque of his chin, charming smirk plastered to his lips. “S’pose yer right. Must be why I fancy ya, then, eh?” He straightened up onto the support of his knees, his hands shifting to find place at your waist before he slid them up your frame to peel back the tank top concealing his desired view. “Now, lemme see me neglected pair o’ girls,” he demanded in an impatient grunt. “Tell ‘em daddy’s home.”

You grimaced lightly at Billy. “Don’t be gross,” you told him, hands falling away from his shoulders to aid his stripping of your torso.

“Bollocks,” he replied almost instantly, “yer love it.” You did—deep down, you devoured his crass attention. He had no difficulty sliding the tank over your head and raised arms, instantly chucking the clothing to some other end of the apartment.

Your hands flew to cover your exposed breasts, your expression alight with cheek as you flashed Billy a toothy grin. He leered you over, an approving smirk on his lips before his hands made an advance towards you. You almost thought he’d make a move to pull back the curtains on your breasts, but instead, his hands cupped your waist.

“All right,” he began—an entertained air about him. “You play it tha’ way.” His hands dipped into the waistband of your shorts, his calloused fingertips teasing at the skin of your back before they found the seem of your underwear and began stripping away the last of your clothed dignity. “Shit’s always arse about face with yer—ne’er the easy way.”

“Easy’s boring,” you told him. He tugged harshly at your shorts & underwear, managing to strip it from your lower half without a struggle. You watched as he shimmied the clothing items down the expanse of your legs, pausing half way to press a greedy kiss to your thigh.

Your legs instinctively squeezed together as the arousal between them became unbearable. Your feet were lifted from the comfort of the bed as Billy stripped the last of your clothing and bundled it aside.

“There we are,” he said with an undertone of accomplishment, his hands moving to curl under your thighs and take steady grip at the skin. Without warning, he tugged you a short length down the bed toward him. You gave a small yelp at being whisked across the sheets, the friction providing a momentary warmth that soothed the skin of your bare back.

“What you say we get the ball runnin’ on this thing, eh?” Billy remarked, and you felt as he encouraged widening of one of your thighs, his other hand making a motion towards your heated mound. You burrowed the back of your head into the sheets almost instantly as his fingers rudely acquainted your folds, teasing at the area that had grown slick with his mere presence.

“Blimey,” he said—an action that made you a tad bit self-conscious. It hadn’t been too long since he’d last seen you down there, but the conditions had already started to become less kept. He’d never been the one to judge, though. He was man enough to be unbothered by trivial matters of body hair. “D’ya have a good weep down here? It done look like a bloody water slide, and I ain’t barely laid a hand on ya,” he said amazedly, fingers grabbing ahold of your clit to deliver a brash squeeze.

Your lower body tensed with the jolt of stimulation his action elicited, and you lifted your head to glare at him. “I almost forgot what an absolute ass of a tease you are,” you told him with the beginning of a frustrated frown.

Billy thumbed an almost apologetic, circular motion around your sensitive area, flashing you a thin-lipped smirk. “Ease off the stick in yer ass, Love, s’all part of the process. Now, you just lay that head o’ yers back like a prissy li’l pillow princess and let good ol’ Billy take care o’ the brunt of things goin’ on down here, all right?”

You didn’t verbally scoff, but the flick of your eyes conveyed the gesture well enough. The hands on your breasts fell away to prop up your torso as you told him, “I’m not a pillow princess. You’re just a greedy—borderline control freak bastard that wants everything his way.”

Billy’s eyes dipped to your exposed chest, and you knew your words had escaped his notice entirely. “Ah, there’s me cheerleaders—come to give me a word of encouragement, have they? Always did love a good audience.” His hand continued to work at your sensitive areas as he brought himself up to your face, other forearm planted supportively beside your head as he leaned over and pressed a firm kiss to your lips.

You kissed him back eagerly, letting yourself fall back against the mattress as you took grip at the base of his neck before blindly reaching down for the buttons of his shirt. You felt the cold pendant of his necklace tease at your neck as he leaned deeper into the abyss of your lips, grunting at your efforts to undo his shirt. You felt his fingers grow impatient between your folds, making a sheer dip into your entrance—and it invited him in without a hassle. You broke off the kiss and sucked air through your teeth at his sudden intrusion, your lower half reflexively tensing with suspense and desire all at once.

“Relax, Love, s’just me—nothin’ new,” Billy murmured breathily against your lips. “Just like we done a thousand times, eh?”

You nodded wordlessly, lips brushing against his—it was well within Billy’s talents to ease the freedom of speech right on out of you, especially with a bedroom talent as skilled as his. You tried consciously to relax your muscles, and Billy had slowed his pace only momentarily to augment your efforts. The success of your attempt was confirmed by his fingers reaching a deeper, warmer depth with each continued thrust, and it wasn’t long before he began to brutalise his pace once more. You gulped hazily, hands hesitating against the fabric of his shirt as his work within you became too much to bear.

“Tha’s a good girl—swallowing me hand whole,” he husked against your jaw. “I know tha’ greedy li’l cunt o’ yers is havin’ a rave down there, but put them hands to work and take me shirt off, will ya, Love?”

Moans of pleasure began to stew in your throat as Billy curled his fingers into you—a foul move when you were already grappling with the near-debilitating euphoria of his lesser ministrations. You tried your best to make headway at undoing the buttons of his shirt as he patiently hovered over you, his kneading of your insides beckoning forth the familiar knot within your core. Once the last button relented, you slid your hands under the middle part of the fabric, palms sliding up his ribcage and across his hairy chest, then toward his shoulders where you tugged the sleeves down his forearms.

The hand buried snugly within your entrance took an abrupt leave as Billy straightened himself and manoeuvred his arms to shed his shirt. He dived back down almost instantly, as though not wanting to lose momentum on the events playing out, both of his hands taking grip at your waist. You felt the slick and warmth of the fingers he’d burrowed within you claw hungrily at your skin, then your attention drew to the upward trail his nose drew between your cleavage, where his lips dawdled greedily.

Your head sank further into the depth of the mattress as you allowed his skilful lips to dance across your skin, his tongue playing fair as he took turns twirling with each of your nipples. Occasionally, he’d deliver a cheeky bite to the sensitive bud, coupled by a husky chuckle when you’d release a wince of pleasure. Your hands took root in his full head of hair, fingers intertwining with the luscious locs and yanking them meanly to even out the playing field of Billy’s work on your breasts. His fingers began to grip harder at your waist, thumb pressing divots into your abdomen, only adding to the pressure that had long since amassed at your core.

“Fucking hell,” you breathed out as Billy’s tongue dragged a warm snail trail down your stomach and across your navel where he settled just shy of your mound with teasing, bordering kisses.

“Fuckin’ hell, indeed,” Billy echoed busily, palms flattened as he grazed them down either side of your hips. He ghosted over your thighs before reaching for your calves and pushing them upward in a gesture to prop up your knees. Once you lifted your legs from the bed, his arms diverged between your legs and curled around them, where he found grip at your inner thighs.

You propped yourself onto your elbows to glimpse your lower half now perfectly presented to Billy, who met your gaze with that scheming smirk of his. “Brace yerself, Love, I’m ‘bout to make a lovely nosh o’ yer cunt,” he warned before his head dipped into your yearning core.

The first greeting of his mouth came as a gaping hole, swallowing your entire being whole. With each lap of his tongue, his sharp nose prodded at your clit, which caused your core to bloom with debilitating pleasure. You tossed your head back, lower lip hauled into the firm clench of your teeth as you drowned the moans attempting to escape the depths of your throat. Straddled at your sides, your fingers furled into the disrupted duvet, ferociously groping the fabric as though it were the tether keeping you from getting swept up into the whirlwind of endorphins.

You adored the way Billy’s beard chafed your folds—coarse hair grating against pliable flesh, and you sought out the stimulation with such eagerness that you began to lift your pelvis deeper into his wet warmth. But the broad hands curled around your thighs proved their strength in the way that Billy kept you pressed against the bed, fingers melding into the flesh of your inner thighs as a feat of authority—control. His jaw began to swivel erratically as his tongue picked up the pace, swirling around, above and below your mound—even making a momentary dip into your slicked entrance. That action plucked an unorthodox moan from your chest, your hand flying to take grip at Billy’s hair.

“Oh, fuck me!” You exclaimed breathlessly, toes beginning to curl against the sheets as his tongue carried you to your climax.

“Tha’s well the plan, innit, Love?” Billy murmured against you, hand patting against your thigh as a teasing gesture of reassurance.

He went on and on, as unrelenting and greedy as the beginning, and the anticipation ricocheting about your lower extremities began to draw into a closely-knitted ball of stimulation just waiting to implode on itself. Your breathing shallowed, your fingers in his hair tightened, your shy noises became more boisterous, but Billy’s tongue pulled away from you, and with it, he quelled the ball of fire he’d lit in the first place.

Your expression furrowed with a mixture of disappointment and exhaustion as you sank back defeatedly into the mattress, the hand in his hair falling onto the sheets as you took a moment to replenish the stock of your lungs. “Asshole,” you huffed—barely audible.

“Oi, shut yer gob and gape yer cunt, ‘cause I ain’t finished with you just yet,” Billy said gruffly, hand reaching for yours. His fingers wrapped around your forearm and tugged suggestively.

Too tired to resist, you curled your fingers around his arm, and you were pulled up effortlessly from the mattress and into his frame. His hands came to rest at your waist, his lips finding yours in a desperate brawl. Your hands cupped his chest, ready to settle in their position as you intended to get lost in his overwhelming presence, but the kiss was abrupt as Billy pulled away to find your neck. He gave your collar bone a little nip, then eased the sting with a kiss before the hands on your hips turned you around and pushed you stomach-first into the mattress.

You gave a light yelp, but his tough fondling of you wasn’t a foreign practice, so you succumbed to his flow. You felt the cool metal of his chain graze up your back as he leant over you, his arm popping into your view as he reached for the pillow and snatched it up. He retreated and withdrew his frame, hand curling under your lower stomach and making the motion to lift you from the bed. You obliged and lifted your hips, to which Billy slid the cushion beneath your lower stomach, and you gladly settled back down into the cushioned support.

“There we are, all prepped for a good poundin’,” he remarked, the sound of his dropped zipper coming shortly after. You cast a glance over your shoulder just in time to witness Billy discarding his jeans and boxers to reveal the buoyancy of his hard-on—a view that you gladly drank up.

“Somebody’s missed me,” you poked.

Billy flashed you a grin, his hand moving to prep his hard-on with a good few strokes. “‘Course,” he said. “Been deprived o’ all worldly pleasures for a whole, bleedin’ week.” He released his manhood and shifted closer to your sprawled frame, hands reaching for your ass. “And yer cunt’s missed me, too.”

“I guess you could say that,” you sighed dramatically, fully aware of the self-forged dam between your legs. You flashed a cheeky grin before turning your head forward, crossing your arms and laying yourself into the support. “Well, have at it, then.”

You felt Billy’s palms caress the curve of your cheeks before he hooked his fingers below your pelvis and pulled your arse into an upward position. “C’mon, up we get. Ain’t s’pose to tell yer what to do—yer a right expert by now.”

You were—it was the same damn position every single time. Billy had a knack for seeing you bent over below him, face down and arse up as you lay all bare and presented for his very generous exploitation. “I’m just making you work for it, for once,” you said.

“Ne’er minded a job,” he answered, hand dipping into your slicked cunt, where he manoeuvred his fingers through the area and gathered and distributed enough of your slick to aid an easy insertion—and it wasn’t long before you felt his length insert into you with a slow and controlled ease.

A deep, hearty grunt of appreciation spewed from Billy’s lips, a low fuckin’ hell thrown somewhere into the mix. You mouth parted with a moan as you felt his girth ascend your entrance, glad for the gracious accommodation of your walls that practically welcomed him with open arms. Your eyes fluttered closed as you bathed in the initial bliss of his penetration, and you purposely perked your arse to deepen the sensation—and to spur him on.

Billy’s hands found a sturdy grip at your ass as his pelvis began to shift against you, the length within you retreating and returning with a steady pace. He held that speed for a good few minutes, feeling out the limits of your entrance, and once he’d reached a decent depth within you, he began to accelerate his movements. A hand slithered up to burrow into the small of your back, your abdomen pushed into the cushion below.

“Fuck, Billy,” you breathed out, pressing your face into the cushion as your arms strangled the feathered mass—his thrusts becoming too much to bear. You’d already endured his fingers & lips, and now the actual prize of the evening was proving too much of a mouthful—perhaps you’d bitten off more than you could chew, but it was far too late to spit out this particular morsel.

“Lovely arch you’ve got here—a bloody gymnast’s dream, that,” Billy teased, palm pressing harder into the small of your back, stomach further buried into the pillow—placed at your navel for the support he’d very much intended you to use. “Doing so well, Love, hang on f’me just a li’l longer, yeah?”

Blissful moans marinated within your throat, the sound hitched rhythmically by the slam of his pelvis against you. The bed rocked and creaked with the commotion, your propped lower half beginning to sag with exhaustion to the point where your entire weight was supported in Billy’s grip. You gnawed at your lip as his thrusts got harsher, faster—a means to an end.

The hand on your back moved to wrap within your hair. “Go on, use yer lungs, Love,” Billy demanded in a breathless grunt, using the hair he’d seized into his hand as leverage to hoist your head from the muffled comfort of the pillow.

Your head snapped into full extension, forcing you to take in the view of the pristine white ceiling overhead, not that the flecks of white dancing across your field of view allowed for much appreciation on your end. The compliance came like a reflex, shameless noises of pleasure streaming from your gaped jaw.

“Yeah, tha’s it,” he praised gruffly, his movements growing erratic. He paused his thrusts only to fold himself over you, his chest pressed against your back and his pelvis flattening your own against the mattress. He resumed his brutish movements, plunging your bodies with a motive that felt akin to reaching the depths of hell. His lips brushed against your ear, exhaustion latched onto his voice. “What you say we fill ‘er up, eh? Ya want that?”

His hand in your hair tightened, your neck further craning with the motion. “Need it,” you muttered thinly, your eyes growing watery with the overwhelming sensations flitting all about your being. “Please.”

“‘Cause yer asked so nicely,” Billy grunted into your head, then pressed a kiss to your temple. With a last bout of rocking, he delivered one last thrust that struck your core with all the pressure it needed to implode.

Your hair was released from his grip and your head fell into the crook of your folded arms, chest heaving as you fought to cling to the little sense you still possessed. Billy’s figure loitered on top of you, and you felt the way his own chest mirrored your exhaustion—if not worse. You sometimes forgot that he was riddled with a good few years of life, but he very rarely let that on in the bedroom.

The warmth of your shared arousal trickled from your entrance and watered the sheets below, but Billy stayed burrowed within you as you both laid motionless on the mattress. You didn’t mind it, though.

“Fuuuckin’ hell,” Billy groaned hoarsely, eventually slipping from your proximity and shifting onto the mattress beside you. He wasted no time in wrapping an arm across your back, hand tugging to pull your back into his chest so that you were comfortably spooned within his broad frame.

You melded yourself into his body, his arm sliding beneath your neck to offer your head some support while his other hand curled over your waist. His lips brushed against your shoulder, where he pressed a few, tender kisses—as if to compensate for his lack of playing nice for the entirety of the morning. You offered a light noise of contentment, a soft smile spreading your lips as your eyes fluttered closed.

All your worries? Forgotten as of now. Nothing mattered for the time being—you just needed to melt away into Billy’s presence. You knew he likely felt the same—a silent ghost whose hand on your waist dragged sensual lines across the skin, his breathing slowed as his jaw rested against your head.

“An Eggs Benedict would complete this morning,” you eventually spoke up, craning your head to glance at him with a suggestive hitch of your brows.

Billy grunted, his chin jutting in defeat. “Yeah, yeah, let a man catch ‘is breath first, then I’ll tend to me lady’s needs. Deal?”

You grinned with a sense of accomplishment. “Deal,” you replied, puckering your lips for a kiss. He leant over to press his lips against yours, and you turned away with a cheeky grin. “Old man,” you murmured cheekily.

“Oi,” he warned, hand on your waist delivering a light squeeze. “This old man fucks yer better than any other cunt ever did, innit?”

You shrugged dramatically. “All right, Billy, whatever you say.”

He scoffed with amused defeat. “Like I said,” he began, “yer a bleedin’ pain in me arse.”

“And don’t you forget it.” You bit the inside of your cheek, mind wandering back to the events of the morning. You had to admit that the anger you’d been harbouring towards Billy had long since eased away—might have very well been fucked right on out of you. If he could keep up this newfound apologetic package of his, you’d happily forgive any of his future shortcomings.

“Wha’s on yer mind?” Billy asked.

“I forgive you.”

“Well,” he remarked smugly. “Ain’t ya adorable?”

“Yes,” you answered instantly. “I am—so don’t fuck it up.”

“Don’t intend to, Love,” he said, pulling you closer against him. “Ain’t got the universe on me side next time yer work up a storm about all me shit. I’ll do right by yer, like I said.”

You turned to face him, your expression earnest as you gazed up at him. “Promise?”

Billy mirrored your stare with a soft smile. “Scout’s honour,” he said. “And yer give me a bloody ear if I break it, all right?”

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Thank you for reading!

I’m literally so sick of this piece I just want it out of my drafts 😭 apologies for any typos, it’s not entirely proof read towards the end. I hope y’all enjoyed it regardless!

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Other Billy Butcher / Karl Urban works:

I M A G I N E S

Carnival for Kisses

Lover Boy Butcher

S M A U s

Pov you hardlaunch your relationship with Karl Urban

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Tags: @violent-darkness @gibson-g1rl @shirley-girly @kus-babygirl @internetitgirl17 @dwinchesterspie1967 @babyfri3dric3

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