#and I really needed them to it was getting ungodly long

[factorialsotherfandoms]

TW: Unreality, major character injury, poor medical technique (and IC they know they're not getting it quite right too), panic attacks, brief vomitting

Maybe a bit long for tumblr, but eh, you'll live, and I'll upload it eventually.

Theoretically safe in his room, FitMC is awoken by the sound of his warpstone activating. He sits, and reaches for a knife, and feels Pac sleepily grasp for him as he disturbs the man's sleep.

"Pac," he keeps his voice as quiet as possible. "Let go. Someone's here."

Pac does not wake as cleanly as Fit, but still grips the knife passed to him, hiding it under the blanket and still pretending to be asleep.

Whomever came takes a while to find them, but eventually there is a knock on his bedroom door; Fit grips his sword, wishes he'd realised he had time to dress and put armour on, and calls "come in!"

Two small figures run into the room, and he tucks the sword away - keeps it close, just in case these are imposters again, but tucks it away.

"Tallulah?" Pac has noticed them too, sitting up as soon as he does and opening his arms. "Chayanne? What's wrong?"

Tallulah runs over and hides in Pac's arms before pulling out a sign; Chayanne gets straight onto writing his. Neither child has their hat or their backpack, and there's the slight glow of a potion over both of them.

'/Something's wrong with dad/' Chayanne writes, then pulls out another sign.

'/Papa says the house is on fire. It's not/' Tallulah writes.

Right. Fuck. Another message? After the last one... Fit's genuinely concerned. He believes well enough that the messages are real, but he worries about the doubt they cast into Philza's mind - and also what something like that contacting his friend could possibly mean.

'/He said find you/' Chayanne's second sign reads. '/Will you help him?/'

'/He was scared/' Tallulah adds. '/Tios, papa is so scared/'

Fit and Pac share a look. Pac nods, and Fit wishes he were telepathic and so could send his roommate an apology for the disturbed night.

"Why don't I go help him out?" Fit offers. "I'll go look after him and have a chat. Pac can look after you two."

"A sleepover!" Pac's grin at them both is strained, but Fit doubts the children notice. "Let's go to my home and eat all the chocolate, yes? Chayanne, do you want to make a cake for your papa?"

Fewer people know of Ilha Chume Labs than Fit's hole in the ground, and even if he means Chume Labs proper the warren of labs will keep them safe.

The kids are still hesitant to agree; Fit smiles at them too, and nods, "your little secret. I know Phil says no snacks after bedtime, but he left you in my care and I say you can."

It doesn't really win them over; Chayanne puts down another sign '/you promise to help dad?/'

Fit makes eye contact with the boy, deadly serious, "everything I can. I promise."

'/you leave first/'

Fit doesn't know if Philza trusts Pac with his children, but Fit trusts him, and honestly they're the least of his concerns. The old crow thinking himself trapped in a burning house - why the hell didn't he leave with the kids - is far more of his worry. Is it the Ender King again? Or some other fucked up entity contacting him in the most bullshit way possible?

"Alright," he says, and grabs his warpstone and a shirt. "Be good for Pac, okay?"

"They're sweet," Pac promises. "They'll be good."

Fit knows that’s a lie, but Pac wrangles Richas well enough, so surely he can manage Philza's kids.

He trusts his faith, and worries for a friend, and warps away.

---

Phil and Missa is quiet, and still, and just as calm as it always is. The moonlight reflects on the glass, and it looks nothing like a house that two children might have fled from. Nothing at all seems wrong, but nothing ever does seem wrong; Fit knows better than to take it at face value.

He’s already opened the hatch before he remembers just how jumpy his friend is, and calls out a loud “oi, Phil!”

He’s already in the main room by the time he hears a reply, glancing between the three options as he fails to choose one.

“Kitchen,” Philza’s voice is quiet, broken, strained as though speaking on an over-strained throat. “Be-” a cough “be careful!”

Careful of what? Tallulah said he thought the house was on fire, so… It’s a waste of resources, but Fit splashes himself with a fire resistance potion anyway. Just so he can tell Philza he’s safe, and not have to lie about any follow up questions.

Depends how bad the vision is, really.

Because Fit is pretty sure they are visions, not hallucinations. It’s just the after-effects on his old friend’s mental health are worse for it.

The kitchen is the door to the left. When Fit steps in, he makes a show of checking it. Everything is normal - down to and including the pot on the stove - except for Philza himself. Still in his pyjamas, stood with his back to the wall. He looked like he was reading something, but glances over his shoulder as soon as he hears Fit approach.

There’s nothing in his hands, not that Fit can see, but they still hover like they’re holding up a book.

His eyes are shot wide open, so wide it goes past terror to border on head injury. His breathing, too, is fucked - Fit can see him panting - but that’s a panic attack for you.

“You good?” Fit asks someone who very, very obviously isn’t. “I was worried, so I asked Pac to watch the kids. Chayanne and Tallulah said something was wrong…?”

It looks like Philza is about to reply, but then he starts coughing. Fit gives him a moment, but it keeps going. His body shudders, gasping for air between coughs as he slumps against the wall.

It’s fucking terrifying; Fit runs forwards before he knows what to say, only stopping himself once Philza manages to catch his breath, and Fit remembers what a fucking terrible idea it is to charge someone whose brain is trapped outside reality.

So he slows to a stop, and brings up his hands.

“Easy, easy,” Fit drops his voice lower, trying to project calm he absolutely does not feel. “What can you see, Phil? Because whoever’s talking to you, they’re not talking to me.”

“Not- ah- not talking?” Philza takes a deep, sharp breath - gasping again. His voice is shaking, distant, so quiet Fit has to strain to hear it even over the silence. “Fire. It’s- It’s fucking… hell in here. Lava. Netherrack. Soul- Soul sand. The whole- whole lot, Fit, the whole damned lot.”

The Nether? Shit. Nobody likes the Nether, so no wonder Phil is panicking so hard he’s choking himself. Fit eases himself forward a little more, trying not to scare his friend more than he’s already terrified.

“What else?” he asks.

It’s not exactly grounding when Philza is seeing another reality, but it’s the only thing Fit knows how to try.

“Book, blackstone, blaze rod, quartress.”

That train of words is said much more clearly, more certainly, but still sounding called from a much greater distance than is between them. Fit can hear the panicked tears threatening to spill over with every word, and his heart fucking breaks.

Gentle, gentle, do his best to help. Fit’s not a gentle person by nature, but if his friends need him he’s going to try.

“Hey, hey look at me,” he orders, trying to be kind but knowing he’s a bit sharper than usual. What can he do to break the tension? Flirt? Flirting always goes down a treat. “See this sexy bald head of mine? I’m not going to let any Ender King hurt you /or/ your kids.”

Fit isn’t exactly sure how he could stop anything with such a name, but he’d certainly try. 

Then Philza says something. It’s so quiet and broken up he can barely hear it, his breathing growing faster and more desperate as he does.

It takes Fit a moment to parse the words - “not him. Blaze Em-press. His enemy.”

What?

“That’s why she set your house on fire? Pissed he got you first?”

It’s the only sense he can make of the enemy of someone Philza is so fucking terrified of making him think he and his house are burning.

“A friend,” Philza says, and begins coughing again. “She’s- a… friend. But’s she’s- … Also the Nether… You know? I-I think- Fuck, my head hurts.”

No bet.

Philza coughs again, spit hitting the floor. At first Fit thinks nothing of it, then he notices the discolouration - not black, not fully black, but slightly speckled with it.

Shit. The coughing isn’t because he panicked himself into not breathing right. The vision… The vision isn’t a hallucination, and it isn’t just a vision, because whatever Philza’s brain can do it can’t fucking fake smoke in his lungs.

Smoke that as far as Fit can tell /does not exist/.

“Not really,” he answers, shaky himself now but needing to reply to the ‘you know’. He has friends, yeah, but if they set his house on fire and tried to kill him by smoke inhalation they wouldn’t be soon. “Let’s get you out of here, and grab some water.”

And once Philza is away from the smoke, get him to Pac and hope the engineer has fucked around in the lab enough to know what to do, because this is far beyond Fit’s abilities to treat.

Philza doens’t reply; Fit closes the rest of the distance. He kneels down infront of his friend, touching his shoulder and trying to assess his condition - no burns on his face, at least. From what Fit remembers, burns on your face mean you’re extremely fucked.

The touch at least seems to break Philza’s trance a little; he reaches out and touches Fit’s shoulders too, using them to lever himself up. Having realised his friend is legitimately and physically hurt, Fit keeps his hands near.

Just in case.

“I’m sorry,” it seems hard for Philza to breathe, and harder still for him to talk. “I must look… I’m sorry.”

He’s back to himself a little, then, but it’s still awful words he says.

“You’re scared,” Fit says, and he’s terrified too - he’s just forcing his breaths steady, his heart calm, and accepting the fact he’ll have nightmares about this day for months. “It’s fucking scary, just thinking about the idea. Entities from elsewhere lasering shit into your brain? Making you think your house is on fire? No thanks.”

Philza laughs, and it’s blissfully familiar for a second.

Then the coughing starts again.

Philza borderline collapses, his body unable to take the force of the coughs. Fit grabs him, keeping him from the floor. He helps him bend a bit better and rubs at his back. That’s what you do to help someone stop coughing, right? Rub their back?

Fuck, he’s so out of his depth right now.

“Easy, easy,” he tries. “Let’s just get out of here. We can talk outside.”

Under Fit’s guidance, Philza manages to walk. It’s slow going, and Fit has at least half of his weight, but he manages. It’s not far to outside, at least; the bunker is big for a bunker, but it’s still no labyrinth.

And then Philze drops from his hold.

“Fuck!”

Fit doesn’t even know what happens. One moment they’re walking, the next Philza is on - in - the floor. He has no way to comprehend it, his entire mind fucking straining to compute seeing both the wooden floor and Philza /inside/ it at once.

And Philza is screaming in agony. Agony, agony, fuck Fit doesn’t think he’s ever heard him scream like that before.

He doesn’t - he doesn’t know what to do.

So he grabs Philza and yanks him up. The floor gives him up easily, and Fit scroops him into his arms.

There’s burns, there’s so many burns - every bit of Philza that was below the floorline - thank fuck not his chest or his head, the survalist managing to catch himself like so many times before - is burnt. His hands, his feet, lower arms, most of his legs…

“I’ve got you, I’ve got you,” Fit tries to reassure.

He doesn’t worry about taking it slowly or about stopping the injuries getting knocked - what Philza needs is out, and away, and he knows Pac has shit for burns they’ve just got to get there.

But first, cold water. Chume Labs is huge, and Chayanne’s paddling pool is a quicker walk.

And every step of the way, Philza screams and sobs and chokes on his throat.

He keeps up the promises of it’ll be okay, trying desperately to soothe at least one of the three. He carries Philza outside. It’s not glamorous or comfortable, but they get there. They get there, they fucking get there.

Fit as good as dumps Philza in the paddling pool, making sure the burns are covered by water. There’s a shudder in the screams, and the sobs start winning; with one hand he rubs Philza’s back, still awkwardly promising his presence, while with the other he grabs his communicator.

/You whisper to pactw: Where are you?/

The reply isn’t immediate. He considers texting the injuries, but… maybe best to assess them first. Let Pac know exactly what they’re dealing with, and also make sure Philza is okay with the Brazilian’s help.

Speaking of… Philza has mostly stopped choking.

But he isn’t doing much of anything else.

“Phil?” he asks, keeping his voice low and simple. “Can you hear me, Phil?”

Philza moves up a little, like he’s straightening to answer. He opens his mouth and- and then leans sideways, over some of the nearby flowers.

Fit can only support his back and watch in terror as Philza vomits into the bushes, flecks of sticky black smoke clinging to that too.

He can feel his own hands shaking as he supports his friend, keeping him from getting vomit on his injuries or in the water, and trying to comfort him all the same. It’s horrible, it’s terrifying, but there’s not exactly much he can do.

Hopefully it’s just panic nausea. He hopes to Hausmaster it’s just panic nausea.

After only a little bit the vomit ends, Philza leaning back and being caught against Philza’s chest.

“... Fit?” his voice is even weaker than before.

“Right here, big boy,” Fit tries to keep his reply lighter than his horror. “You with me?”

There’s a shuddering breath, followed by a nod.

Philza could probably do with a potion, but the only one he has is in Fit’s pocket. He didn’t grab his bag or anything before heading over, and he’s regretting it now. But to access it…

“Okay, fuck,” he breathes, clearing his mind with the swearing. “If I let go for a second, can you keep yourself above water?”

There’s a hesitant nod - Fit slowly lets go as Philza adjusts, making sure he is steady before digging through his pockets. The potion is… Somewhere. It won’t fix everything, not for shit this bad, but it’ll help with the shock and any infection risk and take the edge off the pain. Maybe heal some of his throat on the way down, too.

He finds it, and puts it to Philza’s lips. It doesn’t take much effort to convince him to drink, pink liquid going easily down.

When he opens his eyes, Philza looks a little more present, and Fit sighs in relief.

“What happened?” his voice is still quiet and scratched, but more solid than when they first got to the pool.

“Fuck if I know,” and honestly, it’s true. Fit can guess and such, but half of the reason he believes in magic crap so easily is because it constantly happens and he has no idea how to parse it, so may as well just take it at face value. “The lava burns are real, though. There was nothing there, it was like watching… I don’t fucking know, you glitch into the floor? Then you screamed, and there’s lava burns.”

He watches Philza examine his burns. With a worried hand he stops him from taking them from the water, massaging his shoulder with a thumb he can only hope is comforting.

It’s comforting for Fit, at least.

“Can I message Pac about this?” he asks, because fuck he’s out of his depth, and Pac and Mike have dealt with enough lab accidents to know some weird medical areas.

Philza quirks something like an attempted smile, “assumed you’d already told him, mate.”

“Not about this,” Fit hasn’t, either; only asking where Pac is since he left. “But… Look, I can stop the burns killing you, but I can’t treat them properly, and I’m pretty sure your lungs are fucked.”

Confusion crawls across Philza’s face. Fit watches in concern as he raises a hand to his lips, it coming away with some of the discoloured, sticky mucus.

He sees the terror in Philza’s eyes as he glances up to meet them.

“Can we not scare the kids?”

Fit takes that as permission. He opens his comms, to find Pac has already replied.

/pactw whispers to you: at Chume Labs

pactw whispers to you: got Chayanne and Tallulah asleep in Mike’s room

pactw whispers to you: how’s Philza?

you whisper to pactw: not good. You got anything for lava burns and smoke inhalation?/

“Pac says they’re already asleep,” Fit promises, and keeps any wondering about how that happened to himself. “They’re going to notice, but we can just tell them in the morning.”

But at least by then the burns will be covered up and their dad might have his head back.

Philza nods, and Fit returns to his comms.

/pactw whispers to you: the fire was real?

you whisper to pactw: real enough to hurt him, not real enough for me to see

you whisper to pactw: it’s freaking me out, but i know what burns look like

you whisper to pactw: and vomiting up smoke ash/

He looks up from the comms to find Philza’s eyes closed. For a moment his heart stops; “don’t sleep just yet.”

Philza gestures at him in reply, and he isn’t sure what it is, but it’s a sign of life at least.

Something approximating fuck off, he’s sure. Fit turns back to his comms, but keeps a closer eye on his friend.

/pactw whispers to you: bring him here

pactw whispers to you: i’m not a doctor but we have some supplies

pactw whispers to you: will get it set up

pactw whispers to you: or would the order be better?

you whisper to pactw: will ask/

“Okay,” he looks at Philza more critically, assessing the damage for himself. “Pac’s got stuff at Chume Labs, and luckily for us that’s also where he took Chayanne and Tallulah. He can either meet us there, or at the Order.”

“Kids,” Philza immediately replies, and Fit is not the slightest bit surprised.

/you whisper to pactw: we’ll come to you/

“Right,” he glances over Pac’s confirmation, and shuts his communicator away. “Do you think you can manage your warpstone?”

Fit really, really hopes that Philza pulling it out means yes, because he’s not sure how to get him anywhere otherwise.

So he pulls out his own, and warps over there.

---

When he arrives Chume Labs, Philza is half-collapsed against the waystone, and dripping wet. Neither is unexpected; Fit scoops him back up, and carries him to the turtle. There’s worryingly little reaction, but his eyes are open and blinking normally, and he winces properly when he coughs.

Managing the turtle while carrying someone is a bit awkward, but Fit manages. Just like he usually does. As it makes its way across, Fit texts Pac to let them know they’re there. He expects a message back saying which floor to go to, but instead Pac meets them at the elevator.

“Fit?” he asks first, then. “Phil? Are you okay?”

Philza manages to mumble something which sounds mostly like a hello; the look Fit and Pac share is worried. Fit sits them both down while Pac sets the floor, and the mechanism crawls to life.

“Here, I bought splash potions,” Pac shows them first to Fit, before throwing them on Philza.

Fit gets splashed as well, the tingle running along his skin. Philza’s body relaxes somewhat, his breathing steadying a little.

“Thank you, Pac,” Fit says. “I didn’t have my bag.”

“Did you have anything?” Pac asks, hands trembling as he visually checks them both over.

“Gave him a basic potion just before I messaged you,” Fit replies. “Otherwise… Got him in cold water, but I didn’t know what else.”

Pac nods, shifting between his feet, “we need a real hospital.”

“We need a real doctor,” Fit points out.

Pac can do nothing but agree to that. He’s about to say something else, when the lift arrives.

There’s a bed with some equipment set up on one side, but Pac leads Fit and Philza over to a chair instead. It’s just like the ones Pac constantly leaves around, except red this time. A whole pile of equipment is beside it, and it faces an open door.

One which shows Chayanne, Tallulah, and Richas safely asleep in a little pile.

Fit places Philza on the chair, only able to stand and watch as Pac fits an oxygen mask to his face.

“He should really have,” Pac gestures a bit, frowning as he pulls the elastics properly. “I forget the word. But nobody knows how to do it, so…”

“That bad?” Fit asks.

“There’s not much to do. Makes it really scary,” Pac frowns, hands twitching a little as he pulls them away. “Can you help me? With the burns.”

“Of course. What do you need, Pac?”

Something useful to do is better than any other option. Fit is handed potions and ointments and dressings, and told the order to apply them in. While Pac works on Philza’s legs - the more extensive of the burns, with more of them deeper in what can only have been lava - Fit takes one of his arms.

He’s treated burns before, even extensive ones. Not usually with this many things, but he knows what he’s doing.

When the first of the potions is applied, Philza visibly flinches. His eyes, still wide, flicker between both of them, and then to the door - relaxing noticeably when he spies his sleeping children.

“Sorry it stings,” Pac smiles at Philza, and Fit can see how shaky it is.

“It’s fine, mate,” Philza’s voice is a bit drifty, but the surprise of the treatment seems to have drawn him back. All the way to full sentences, too. “Just means I still have feeling.”

… Fit might understand that sentiment, but he’s not exactly thrilled about it.

“Only you, Phil,” and his voice is more affectionate than he means it to be.

Philza turns and glares at him, and Fit swallows a laugh at how ridiculous he looks.

“You have said that before,” Pac points out, though it takes Fit a moment to realise it’s directed at him. “It /is/ true. Still hurts, though.”

Philza adjusts his position slightly, and Fit concludes that it must be the potions actually working that keeps him so present when he was spaced out so badly before. “Don’t worry, I’ve survived worse.”

Fit thinks of his friend knee-deep in lava, without the right protections, miles from home and alone in the Nether, living in a world where a single death means you’re gone forever.

He shudders, and hates it, and it really is not helping his fear.

“You know that’s not actually reassuring, right?” he tries to joke.

He needs to leave this ointment for a little bit. Fit shifts from working on the right arm to the left.

Philza shrugs in reply, but his throat catches. Pac is already bolting up to help and Fit reaching to support his back by the end of the stuttered breath. Philza manages to avoid the coughing fit, though, taking a few deep breaths of the oxygen and settling his lungs.

Once he has, he says whatever he meant to say. He keeps his voice quiet, and the hoarseness is still apparent, but at least Philza manages to avoid the breaking this time. “I do appreciate the help, guys, but I have fallen in lava and been fine before. Didn’t even have bandages then.”

That statement only serves to make the imagined scenarios worse. Fit tries to glare at his friend, only to soften when he sees just how exhausted the man looks.

He can’t win against his friends. He never has been able to.

“I get it,” Pac replies for him, deft fingers now bandaging Philza’s legs. “We didn’t either. But… It will heal better. Faster, cleaner, less infection risk.”

Fit nods along to Pac’s words, and uses the time to gather himself. Philza’s at least chatting, now; it’s easier to suppress the terror.

“Don’t you want us to care about you, Phil?” Fit reaches over with one hand, squeezing his shoulder like he always does when trying to give comfort. The idea of it actually hurts, now he’s vocalising it. “Are you saying you won’t let us worry? Don’t want us to care?”

They see Philza try to reply. This time, the stuttered breaths do turn into a coughing fit. He pulls the mask up to spit out the mucus, but holds it close, still trying to use that air. It doesn’t stop with one cough, or with two; Pac reaches up from his feet, resting Philza’s head against one shoulder as he loops arms around his back. Fit leans down, rubbing circles and hoping they help.

It keeps going and going, and Fit sees his own terror reflected in Pac’s eyes. He’s about to resort to screaming for Cucurucho when the coughs finally cease, Philza’s body weak and trembling from the exertion.

Gently they ease him back into the chair. Fit fixes the mask back into place, while Pac clearly frets about something in his mind.

Even Philza seems to notice that, his eyes shifting to watch Pac.

It breaks the seal.

“How, ah, bird are you?” Pac clearly doesn’t know if that’s a polite thing to ask, and, honestly, Fit has no idea either. He can only shrug in reply to the unspoken question. “I don’t know crows, but…”

Philza takes another moment or two, chest heaving but at a much slower pace than before, “not sure, sorry, I just live like this.”

The reason why Pac asks suddenly clicks - canaries in a coal mine, but all birds are more vulnerable to smoke than humans. Their respiratory systems just being weaker to it.

At least Fit can reassure that one.

“We’ve run through a fire together before,” he says, skimming over the terror of that event too in his mind. “If he took the smoke worse than me, it wasn’t enough to notice.”

Pac may as well collapse in a heap on the floor for all the relief in his eyes - he doesn’t, but it seems a close-born thing. “Still… you really need a hospital.”

It’s muttered, it’s quiet, it’s been said before, but it’s unfortunately very true.

Fit can see the laugh growing on Philza’s face, and also how he struggles to hold it in.

“Welcome to the island, Pac,” Philza manages to say instead. “You read an out of date medical textbook ten years ago, and it makes you about the best we’ve got.”

“It was a biochemistry book,” Pac corrects, and it either explains a lot or nothing at all. “And some websites. I’ve practiced on Mike, though. We both set many things on fire.”

Philza cannot escape an amused snort this time, but it clearly messes with him enough to fuck his breathing once again. Fit keeps an eye on it as he finishes treating his arms, and sees Pac doing the same with his legs.

They drop the topic to work, using each other as a support they might not even really have.

Once the bandages are all in place and Philza seems to be doing better… Well there’s a goat in the room, isn’t there? Because someone set Philza on fire, using lava Fit couldn’t even see.

“Phil…” he isn’t sure how to phrase it but it needs to be said. “I have some idea, but… what did you see?”

“Not a lot,” Philza answers willingly enough, though he twitches as he does. Fit places a hand over the back of his neck, and hopes it’s reassuring. “Kinda like the other two. The bunker was on fire, there was a trail to a book and some items and pictures. Used fire res, but I only had the one… Ran out about when you arrived.”

That gives them a timescale for just how long, at least - fire res offers some smoke protection, so… But then, perhaps he was breathing it in before he awoke or used the potion, too.

“And the book?” he asks, because it’s always the books that seem to scare his friend the most - it was the book Fit couldn’t see he was reading and rereading when he arrived, that probably stopped him leaving before the fire res ran out.

“What do you want me to say?” despite his weak voice, it’s clear Philza is frustrated by the whole thing. “It’s the Blaze Empress, but what does it matter?”

“Is she liable to kidnap you?” Fit asks first, because after the Ender King talk he /needs/ to know if this is another threat or not. “I know you were worried about…”

He glances at Pac, and realises he will actually have to explain that later. Now Pac’s been here and seen this and is kinda involved all over again.

“I don’t know, Fit,” Philza doesn’t seem as scared this time - still terrified, but more burnt out, more exhausted, more likely to give in than run. “In my dreams of her realm… lava is… people. And the quartress has a bee farm. In the /Nether/. It’s not… It can’t be… There’s no sense here.”

Fit and Pac share a look, and Pac agrees to take on the burden of speaking.

“You burnt from the lava,” he hesitantly offers. “I don’t think… you can hallucinate that?”

Yeah, no, Fit’s seen a lot of cases of mind over matter, and none of them result in that sort of happening.

They watch Philza struggle for a time. Pac starts putting the leftover bandages away, constantly glancing back to check on their shared friend. Philza’s lips move, and reassass, grimace and frown and just… don’t seem to know what to do.

The building distress is obvious, though.

Fit’s about to try soothe him again when Philza opens his mouth again. This time, it’s not just weak - they can hear genuine vulnerability, and the first hints of terrified sobs.

“If she’s real, the war is real. She… She can reshape reality, but the Ender King can steal it. /Has/ stolen it,” Philza stops for air, tears trying to streak down his face. “Entire swathes just… gone. In the blink of an eye. He did it to her… the quartress… hangs in a void… I- I can’t- They’re fighting over me now, Fit, they fought over the world and now they’re fighting over me and there’s nothing I can do about it. There’s… There’s not going to be a world /left/, Fit, not if they fight again! If… If they come, if they take me… Don’t try to stop them, don’t come after me - /please/, Just…”

Philza glances at his children. The sobs break his speech, but it’s so obvious what he means.

“Oh Phil…” Pac whispers, barely audible.

“Of course,” Fit promises - at least to looking after Chayanne and Tallulah. He’ll never promise to never try rescue a friend, not if he sees the option.

The sobs continue, and there’s nothing either of them can really do.

“I-” Philza breaks through them to try to talk, turning desperate eyes on Fit. “I’m scared- I- don’t… I-”

Fit lets the air entirely out of his lungs, and leans over to hug his friend. It’s awkward and it’s difficult, but they manage all the same. He hopes its comforting - Philza presses hard against his chest - because it’s all he can do.

Pac scrambles up onto the arm of the chair, then hesitantly leans over. He presses his weight to Philza’s back, and wraps his arms around his front.

Together they hold him as he sobs, hoping it’ll be soothing enough to avoid another coughing fit.

It isn’t.

This one isn’t as bad as the last, but it’s still terrifying. Fit does his best to soothe in tongue clicks, while Pac rubs his back and begs him to breathe.

Sobs bubble harder into the coughs, eventually winning back over.

“You need to calm down,” Fit says - not because crying is terrible, but because it’s causing his friend to choke. “Please, Phil, you need to calm down.”

Philza doesn’t. He keeps crying and crying and crying, shaking and terrified and seeming so small where he’s trying to curl in the chair.

There’s no chance to ask him about it, either; the tears have to end eventually, but they only cease as he drifts off to sleep.

Fit gives him a moment, checking that, and turns to Pac.

“He cried himself out,” he whispers. “Do we need to wake him up?”

Pac hesitates, clearly trying to remember. Eventually he shakes his head, “put him on the bed. We just…keep an eye on him.”

“Alright. Can you get the oxygen?”

It’s easy enough to move him to the bed, far easier than carrying Philza to the pool in the first instance. Pac moves various bits of equipment around them, clearing the path and making sure the tube on the mask doesn’t tug, the last one being to pull down the sheets.

Philza is very definitely asleep by the time he’s laying on them. Pac sets up a little more stuff, pushing fluids into his veins and tracing his heartbeat just in case, but there’s only so much he knows how to do. Roier knows more - did more for Forever - but Roier is missing, and Pac’s knowledge is from scientific testing, not medical.

Once Pac is done fiddling, Fit tucks the blankets around his friend. He’s led to a pair of chairs positioned to watch both Philza and the children, and collapse into them.

“Well, fuck,” Fit says, because he really has no other words for the situation.

“Will he be okay?” Pac replies, glance flittering between Fit, Philza, and the sleeping children.

“You’re the closer to an expert than me.” Fit drapes an arm over his eyes, trying to hide from the very bright lighting.

“The burns were a lot, but didn’t have time to get very bad. His breathing is worrying but it’s, ah, improving. I want to do more, Fit, but I don’t know what to do,” Pac shuffles in his chair. “I am not trained for this. But… I meant… in his brain. Will he be okay in his brain?”

“That’s the question, isn’t it,” Fit frowns. “The shit he sees is definitely real, but it’s not the same real so he’s still going to be left doubting it all. And Philza does /not/ handle doubt.”

“The same real?” Fit peaks out under his arm, and sees confusion writ on Pac’s face.

“Yeah,” he frowns himself. “The lava? I couldn’t see it, even as it was burning him. Hell I was standing on the same floor he tried to walk on. It was a brainfuck - he fell through the floor into the lava, but it was still there.”

“Like BadBoy’s ghost blocks?”

“Not really,” Fit, still not sure what he saw, struggles to explain. “Or, kinda? But like the ghost block could also have lava inside it. The lava and the floorboards were in the same place, just you sink in lava.”

Pac pulls a long series of faces, clearly struggling with the concept. After a bit, he clicks, “more like… hiding cables for storage?”

“Maybe?” Fit doesn’t really know a lot about that. “Whatever it was, it was terrifying. And the beings contacting him? Being powerful enough to do /that/? He asked me not to intervene if he gets kidnapped, but I don’t even know if I could!”

Pac scoots a little closer, leaning over the arm of the chair to rest on Fit’s shoulder. Fit reaches up, entangling a hand into his hair. “You’d try.”

“Damn right I would,” because of course Fit would. They might all be as good as powerless here, their actions having even less meaning than in the Wasteland, but he’s still going to /try. Good friends are hard to come by, and he’s not going to let some extra-dimensional fuckery steal one of his away.

Not if he has a choice, anyway.

“It’s just…” Fuck, Fit has to tell Pac, doesn’t he? “Does the name the Ender King mean anything to you?”

Fit watches Pac think very hard about the question, focus and concentration mixing into one. After a few minutes he looks back at Fit, “like… Enderman? But a king?”

“I guess?” Fit shrugs a bit. “Phil did say he’d have no idea if he were here - there’s no marks of him, but he mostly exists in another realm.”

“No, then,” Pac shakes his head a little. “Just… that. Phil said something?”

“Yeah, few weeks back,” Fit pulls a face. “With the egg shoes? It was when he called me off that day.”

Pac nods, “the shoes were cute.”

“They were,” Fit smiles a bit at the happier memory. “But Phil… Chayanne and Tallulah were with him, and I swear its only that that stopped him having a panic attack. He’d had that other message - the one you were there for? That scared him, but the second one /terrified/ him. Was promising Chayanne and Tallulah he’d always get back to him, to behave if he was kidnapped, laugh-sobbing when Chayanne promised to kill whatever scared him, the works.”

“And it was the Ender King? He mentioned it today, too.”

“Yeah…” Fit trails off, unsure what else to say.

There’s quiet for a moment, before Pac speaks up again, “how did Phil, er, how does Phil know them?”

Fit takes a deep breath, trying both to remember and work it out. “He /says/ it’s from his dreams. He dreams of living in another world, really consistently, really vividly, and these… entities are its rulers. He doesn’t remember all of them, though, it’s still just a dream.“

“Memories, maybe?” Pac asks. “Does he have amnesia too?”

“Maybe?” Fit frowns. “He remembers shit with me well enough, but I don’t remember enough about the rest to compare. Could be the Feds just stole part of them.”

“Which means we all might have all-powerful supervillians after us,” Pac’s eyes are a bit wide.

“And who would even be after you?” Fit laughs, already knowing who is after him.

“I am an international criminal wanted in five countries,” Pac mocks some offence. “Entire governments want me dead!”

They can both only hold it for a moment before descending into giggles. It takes a few moments to recover, their foreheads pressed together.

“The Blaze Empress sounds… fiery,” Pac muses, once he has recovered. “And Endermen hate water. Maybe he should make an underwater safe zone? Just in case.”

“We can suggest it once he’s feeling better,” Fit promises. “Knowing Phil, he’s already got one hidden away somewhere, he just hasn’t thought of it.”

Pac might be the least paranoid of the three of them, but that really is not saying much. Fit can already see the calculations running, and so gently pokes his nose. There’s a jolt of surprise, and a soft smile. “Fit?”

“Thanks for your help,” Fit says, trying his best to be genuine. “Sorry about the night… We can talk more in the morning, and rearrange to another time?”

“Philza is important,” Pac shrugs. “We can adjust.”

“Are you sure?”

“You’ve done the same for Mike,” Pac’s voice is a bit soft.

There’s not much Fit can say to that. Instead he just moves on.

“Do you want to sleep first, or shall I?”

Pac glances at Philza, then the time, “you sleep first? There’s more likely to be problems earlier.”

“Alright,” Fit doesn’t want to leave either of them, but they all need sleep. “Wake me in a few hours, okay?”

Pac nods, and shoos him off.

There’s too much to talk about in the morning - Fit already knows they never will finish the conversation, not even if Philza is stolen from their watch and tormented by gods from another realm.

It’s fine, though, it’ll be fine.

He lays awake, failing to think of a solution, listening to Pac watch low-volume Brazilian romance films until his own dreams steal him away.

[floral-hex]

Made some coffee because I need the boost

Going to go shave off my beard next because I like the occasional clear cut before growing it back and also no one ever sees me so it won’t matter how baby faced I am for the next week.

Going to stupidly retry buspirone later tonight. If you’ve followed my “lore” (and I’m sorry if you have), the last time I tried it over a few days, it only gave me extra anxiety and made me feel hot and incredibly uncomfortable. Maybe that was a fluke. Maybe it was interacting with the antidepressants I had just upped my dose of. Regardless, we’ll give it another shot and if it goes bad again, I’ll just take a couple benadryls, conk out, and not worry about them again.

Okay, I love you.

[messylustt]

i need hobie brown smut i can’t find any 😭🙏 hes a rockstar so i’m pretty sure those fingers are …. 😍😍

practice — hobie brown. longer name. hobie using your pussy for band practice. they areeee tho. god.

he’d be sitting on a comfy chair or couch, legs spread (of course), and he’d be ushering you over by a slight backwards tilt to his head. thinking all is innocent you walk over, bouncing onto the couch beside him. hobie immediately grabs your legs which had bent slightly together, as he straightens them over his lap, his large hands practically wrapping around both calves (they are big enough, yes).

“how’d practice go?” you ask, shifting to get slightly more comfortable. “I could practically hear your guitar from a million rooms down — ” but your words drift off upon feeling his hands glide up your leg, coming to a stop by your bare thighs (you being in a skirt). you intake air as hobie yanks you closer to him by your thighs, slightly spreading them in the process.

you’re now practically draped over him having to push up slightly on your elbows as you stare at him from lower on the couch. “it was alrigh’…” his hand began to lead under your skirt all while keeping eye contact with your fluttering eyes. “if ya heard it that far away, then mission accomplished.” your breathing hitches as hobie’s ringed fingers disappear under your skirt, away from your vision, as he slowly brushes over your covered pussy, making your hips jolt.

“but apparently I need practice…” he hums, beginning to draw patterns over your clit as your chest begins to heave. “my fingers need to be quicker to get a certain tempo…” now he’s moving your panties aside as he slides the tips of his fingers through your wetness. “thanks, babe…ya all prepared for me.”

and then he’s thrusting two long fingers into your cunt making your breathing hitch as your hips shift. “hobie…”

“mm…” he watches as his fingers go in and out your pretty hole. “ya can help me get better…righ’?” his thrusts are moving quicker now, as his other hand keeps your thighs spread apart. “let me know if my speed is improving.” you’re now a whimpering mess as your head knocks back, his thrusts now at an ungodly pace as his thumb moves to rub circles on your clit.

“no no…i need to you to see. to let me know how i’m doing…” his free hand moved to pull your chin back. “watch.” your pussy is clenching around his fingers, as the speed makes your entire body hum, his thumb somehow flicking your clit perfectly. and as your orgasm crashes over you, hobie hums to himself, slowing the pace a fraction, but not pulling out.

“see…i’m already getting better…you really are helping me improve…” his thrusts quicken up again, making you whine in overstimulation. “shh…this technique is working…i can’t stop my practice now…”

© messylustt.tumblr please don’t steal, copy or translate my work onto other platforms.

[deadsetobsessions]

Alley Drunk! Danny AU- Part 1

[Pt.2] [Pt.3] [Pt.4]

To not turn into a giant raging asshole hell bent on murdering people and destroying the world after everyone he loved died, Danny had ran from Amity with his chosen vice.

A bottle. That’s right. Even after Jazz’s talks about alcoholism as a poor coping mechanism as a form of self harm, he still chose alcohol. Or maybe that’s why he picked it, because it reminded him of her, right before the booze took the sting of grief off of her memory. He was never really all that good at listening to Jazz.

And now she’s gone, so it’s moot point. Danny really hated Nasty Burger.

Danny made it all the way to Gotham, bottle constantly glued to his hand. It’s better than Vlad’s creep-o-self looming over him all of the time. He bummed out on the streets, fitting into crime alley like a native. Danny learned to pickpocket. Not much, just enough for a bottle when his ran out. He stayed human. At first he tried to convince himself that it was because he didn’t want to be perceived as a meta in a city where Batman notoriously disliked metas. Then, as he sunk deeper, he admitted to himself in a shameful curl of a whisper that it was really because alcohol affected his human side much easier.

Ghosts need an ungodly amount of alcohol to even get slightly buzzed. Danny’s human side? Only one full bottle the shittiest tequila he could find could even hope to be more than buzzed. It sucked.

He’s spent two years being an alcoholic that didn’t actually get that drunk. Technically, underage drinking was a crime. But then again, so was being a vigilante ghost. So, whatever. He does what he can to dull the grief. Mostly, he slept on covered and hidden nooks on top of Crime Alley’s roofs. Gotham city had taken pity on him and cleared her smog clouds when he was awake at night. Stargazing helped, at least. It gave him a little hope. It gave him a little wish to change and better and live like he wants. But then the night ends and when the day comes, Jazz isn’t there. Sam isn’t there. Tucker isn’t there. His mom and dad are not there.

Danny always went back to the bottle, in the end. Not that it did much.

Which was why, when he saw three looming figures over a tiny child, Danny’s saving people thing flared with a vengeance and his surprised ectoplasm burned what little buzz he had achieved by downing most of the bottle away, leaving him stone cold sober and pissed.

Danny sighed, dumping the rest of the nasty tasting liquid out. There’s no point drinking that little.

He approached the trio, who were beating up an actual child. Ancients, he hated Crime Alley sometimes.

“Give me your shit, you little punk!” Asshole 1 decided to say like a typical mugger, raising his leg to kick the curled up kid below. Danny doesn’t let him land the kick, smashing the bottle on the asshole’s head before any of them clocked his presence. He pivots, pushing a bit of that extra strength he normally keeps on a tight leash into his hands, and punched the other two in a quick fashion, knocking them out.

With that taken care of, Danny turned back to the kid who was still curled up. Danny sighed again, the trembles in small shoulders plucking on his heartstrings.

“You okay, kid?”

The kid uncurls, and Danny stared. Holy shit, is he looking into a mirror? Blue eyes, black hair, and tanned skin. Holy shit, he’s even got similar jaws to Danny.

“Huh.”

The kid flinched.

“Y-y’er the drunk,” the kid flinched again, eyes darting to the broken bottle still clenched in Danny’s hand. “I- I ain’t got money, honest. Please-”

Danny blinked down at the kid, brain connecting the dots after so long without actual interaction. He’s panicking and staring at the bottle in Danny’s hand like it’ll kill him. Danny raised the bottle and the kid closed his mouth with a click, terror worming its way into the kid’s eyes.

“I wasn’t going to mug you myself, kid.”

“But- y’er the- the Alley drunk.”

Danny blinked. Did he get a reputation without knowing again? Goddammit.

“I guess. Am I famous or somethin’?”

“Nobody- nobody fucks wit’ ya.”

“I also don’t hurt kids.”

“…”

The kid stared at him dubiously and with a sinking feeling, Danny realized that maybe the kid already had some terrible experiences with a heavy drunken hand. He promptly chucks the bottle further into the alley.

“I drink, yes. But I’m also not the kind of scum that would lay hands on a kid, let alone anyone that didn’t provoke it first.”

“Oh.” The kid uncurled more, looking at Danny warily, more at ease now that the bottle has left the chat.

“Yeah. I’m Danny. Stone cold sober, right now.”

“…”

Danny waited.

“Peters.”

“Okay. Peters, do you wanna take their shit?” Danny pointed a thumb at the knocked out would-be-muggers behind him.

“Y… yeah, sure. What’s my cut?”

“All of it.”

Peters stared.

Danny shrugged and started looting.

"Y'er so fuckin' weird."

----

See, the thing is, Danny hadn't anticipated saving Peters- "'s actually Jason"- would result in having a duckling following him around. The kid, Jason, glared at everyone who even looked at them wrong. But that's not the problem, because Danny could take anyone who took issue with Jason's looks, it's more like there's a child following him around now and Danny doesn't want to be the reason Jason turns into an alcoholic. It's- well, it made him cut down on the drinking. He even got jobs- legitimate jobs that sucks out his his poor ectoplasmic soul.

Why? Because Jason's apparently homeless. While that's something Danny's okay with for himself, he can't ever condone that for an actual child. Jason's walking around in threadbare clothes and thin soled shoes in the middle of Fall, for Ancient's sake.

Danny grumbles as he piled a bunch of clothes into the shopping bag as he checked out. Gotham's Walmart is a different kind of hell, but Danny feels right at home.

Sure, the work might suck out his soul and he might hate being sober, but Jason's face every time he comes home to an actual place to live, warm clothes, and food was worth everything.

[javiscigarette]

Teacher's Pet, part II

Joel Miller x virgin f!reader

Summary: Joel gives you a few more lessons and a few more feelings start to surface. (Picks up right where part one left off so I recommend reading that first!)

Warnings: unbalanced power dynamics, virgin!reader, neighbor/bff/more experienced! Joel, age gap, oral (m!receiving), fingering, thigh riding, dirty talk, ungodly amount of pet names, unprotected sex, virginity loss (it's the real deal this time), he's back and more annoying than ever but still just as sweet, disgustingly fluffy at times, reader has hair he can run his fingers through but no other physical descriptions, no use of y/n

w/c: ......10.5k I am so sorry

a/n: It's here! I kept changing my mind with how I wanted this to go so hopefully I landed on something good. I'm absolutely still blown away by the amount of love and support you guys gave on part one :'))) you are all incredible. Hoping and praying this one lives up to everyone's expectations

Part One

my masterlist

"Well, excuse the fuck outta me" he huffs, but the feigned offense  is betrayed by the way he’s positively beaming down at you.  "I'm about to give you the best fuckin' lay of your life, and here you are makin' fun of me." "The best fuckin' lay of my life? I haven’t even had one lay. Don't exactly have anything to compare it to." "Yeah, well, trust me. Best you're ever gonna get.” "That's some big talk, cowboy. Let's see if you can live up to that."

Getting on your knees for Joel Miller wasn’t exactly on your agenda for today. 

Not that you’re really complaining. 

He doesn’t look bad from this angle, you have to admit.  His chest looks broader from where you are on your knees in front of him, if that’s even possible. His hair is messy and tousled from where your fingers pulled and tugged with a pretty red flush spreading down his neck and chest, and the soft curve of his belly looking positively sinful. 

“First lesson is how to take a man’s pants off,” Joel starts. “Think you can handle that? Or do you need a demonstration first?” 

You scowl up at him, his words pulling you out of your transfixation on his body. 

“Shut up,” you hiss. “I can take your pants off.” 

He grins and raises an eyebrow. 

“Yeah? Go on then. Show me.”

You roll your eyes but take a steadying breath, trying your best to calm your pounding pulse and trembling fingers as you reach up for his belt buckle. The metallic jingle has your heart fluttering in your chest, and you make quick work of the rest, unbuttoning and unzipping his jeans until they’re hanging open in front of you.

You stop for a moment and glance up at him. He’s looking down at you, a soft encouraging smile playing on his lips. 

“S’okay, baby. Keep goin’,” he murmurs, nodding his head once. 

You give him a small nod and a tight swallow around the lump in your throat, dropping your gaze back to the task at hand. Gently, gingerly, you hook your fingers in the waistband of both his jeans and boxers, pulling them both down simultaneously. 

A tiny, barely audible gasp escapes you when his cock springs free and bobs heavily in front of you. 

“Jesus Christ,” you whisper, too stunned to stop the words from slipping out. 

“Just Joel if fine, actually.” 

You barely even register his jab and you definitely don’t have the bandwidth to come up with any kind of witty comeback right now, your mind too busy processing the sight before you. Sure, you’ve seen plenty of dicks before, the internet can be a magical place. But this, in person, up close and so real, is an entirely new experience. 

He's big, thick, heavy, and long with a slight upward curve. The tip is flushed a deep pink, shiny with smeared precome with more beading at the slit. A few thin veins run from his base to his tip up the length in a twisting pattern, the dark hair at his base neatly trimmed. And he’s hard, so much so that it looks nearly painful and your stomach flutters know that you're the one who did that to him.

"You can touch it, y'know." Joel says softly after a few moments of silence. "It ain't gonna bite."

"Oh my god" you groan, bringing up a hand to scrub down your face as he pulls you out of your awe. 

"Again, just Joel is fine."

He laughs proudly at his own joke and you drop your hands in your lap and stare up at him in disbelief. 

"Oh c'mon! You walked right into that one, no need to get all-"

He cuts himself off with a hiss, the air escaping between his teeth and his head falling back as your hand wraps around him, squeezing just a little too tight to be pleasant. He staggers half a step backward, hips jerking away from your grip.

"You were saying?'' you ask sweetly, grinning up at him.

"Fuckin' christ, woman. You're tryin' to get me off not break it off"

You loosen your grip a little but keep your hand still and look at him with expectant eyes, waiting for further instruction. It's not that you don't know what to do, you just don't know how to do it well. How to do it for him.

You want to do well for him.

The realization should alarm you, scare you even. But you find it only spurs you on, only makes the want burning inside of you even more potent and pressing. You want to make him moan, gasp, make his body writhe beneath your touch. You want him to be breathless, shivering, and panting with pleasure. You want to make him come undone, just like you did for him.

"Okay" he starts, clearing his throat and taking a deep breath. "Lesson two is learning what he likes. Everyone's a lil different, but the basics are the same."

The nerves in your gut twist almost painfully, the anxiety of it all getting you half a second away from tapping out. 

But your decision is set in stone when he drops his hand to yours where it’s wrapped around him, giving a light squeeze before he starts to gently guide your movements. 

"Start slow,” he starts, a light strain tainting the edges of his voice. “Nice and gentle. Wanna work up to it."

You nod and watch, focused intently as if you were actually a student in class as the head of his cock disappears and reappears in your fist. His hand covers yours nearly entirely as he drags it up and down while you try and memorize where he squeezes a little tighter, when he swipes his thumb over the head. 

“Can give a little twist at the top,” he murmurs, voice low as he demonstrates what he means. “There you go, baby. Just like that,” he sighs when you do the same. 

Once satisfied, he removes his hand, letting you take control. You continue to pump him, trying to replicate the movements he just showed you. His cock is a warm, heavy weight in your hand, twitching and pulsing every now and then when you twist your wrist just right or swipe your thumb over his head like he showed you, collecting and spreading his precome to ease your strokes. 

Your confidence builds with each stroke and soon enough you start to experiment with your pace, switching between faster and slower. He gently rocks his hips in time with your hand, unable to resist thrusting forward just slightly.

The fire inside you burns even hotter at the shaky breath that he lets out above you, heat spreading through your veins like wildfire before settling low in your belly, your core aching and pulsing with it. 

"This good?" you ask concerned, your voice barely above a whisper. 

He lets out a breathless chuckle and looks down at you with heavy lidded eyes.

"Yeah, honey. Real good," he rasps, a small smile spreading across his lips.

You match his smile, biting your lip and basking in his praise, a warm, gooey feeling spreading outwards from your heart to the tips of your fingers and toes. It's like he has a direct link to the inner workings of your brain and body with how effortlessly he can make you melt, with just a soft, easy smile and a few well chosen words.

"Should I...do you want my mouth?" you ask, glancing between his flushed, leaking cock and his hooded eyes.

"God yes, baby. J-just start slow. Lick the tip, get a feel for it. Don't try to take too much right away," he instructs, his voice constricting more and more with each word. 

"So I shouldn't try to fit all of your giant cock in my mouth on my first go?" you quip, raising a brow.

"Please don't" he chuckles. "Don't want ya pukin’ all over the place. Might kill the mood," he adds with a grin.

You shake your head and let out a light laugh, the sound trailing off into a content hum when he brings his hand to the top of your head, his fingers tangling in your hair, dull nails scratching lightly at your scalp.

"You're ridiculous," you sigh, leaning into the touch.

"You love it."

You do, so, so much.

"Now c'mon. You've got work to do," he teases, his hand gently tugging at your hair.

You comply easily enough, leaning forward and tenderly swiping your tongue across the slit, licking up the precome that's gathered there. He hisses, a rush of hair pushing past his clenched teeth as  his cock twitches in your hand, a fresh bead of precome forming. 

With your confidence renewed by his reaction, you do it again, pressing your tongue flat against the slit and swirling it slowly around his swollen tip all while your hand still works him at a steady pace. 

Emboldened, you take it a step further and close your lips around him, sealing them around the head to give him a slow, experimental suck. The groan he rewards you with has sparks shooting down the length of your spine.

"That's it. Good girl. Just like that," he pants, fingers tugging and tightening in your hair.

His praise washes over you in another wave of warmth, a feeling akin to a full-body shiver that has goosebumps breaking out over your skin. It strokes your ego, pride and confidence filling you as his soft moans and grunts fuel the fire burning in your belly.

Encouraged by the way he’s already falling apart, you take him a little deeper. It’s only a few inches but your lips are already stretched wide, a slight ache already settling in your jaw from how wide it's being forced open. 

You keep your tongue flat against the underside of his cock while you start to bob your head, trying to match the pace of your hand. But the motions are new and unfamiliar, your movements clumsy and uncoordinated and when he hits the roof of your mouth, your gag reflex kicks in forcing you to pull off quickly, coughing and sputtering.

"Easy. Easy," Joel soothes, his fingers scratching at your scalp again. "Try to breathe through your nose. And don't don't force it, yeah? Feels good, just the way you were doin' it."

"Sorry," you apologize sheepishly, looking up at him through your lashes.

"Ain't nothing to be sorry for. S’your first time. It takes practice. Now, c'mon. Try again. Nice and easy. And if this man tries to-"

But you're not in the mood for another Joel Miller Life Lesson, especially when he’s about to mention the other man who's name you can barely even remember anymore. 

Thankfully, his words dissolve into a groan when you take him back in your mouth, your lips wrapping around his sensitive head, tongue flat where it slowly glides down the underside of his cock as you take him deeper. 

The ache in your core is quickly growing more and more incessant. You can still feel the ghost of his fingers and tongue on you, your inner thighs wet and sticky with the memory. And the sinful sounds he’s making, whispered curses between breathy moans and grunts, are not exactly helping your case. 

You manage to take a little more, his thick cock stretching your mouth wider, forcing your jaw open even further. You gag slightly around him again but you’re determined to push through it this time. YOu squeeze your eyes shut and breathe in harshly through your nose as saliva dribbles past the tight seal of your mouth and drips onto your hand, your fist diligently pumping what you can't take.

He responds with a low, guttural groan, his hips jerking forward, chasing after the sensation of your throat convulsing around him. 

You're still only a little over halfway down and it's a quick realization that you'll never be able to get it all down your throat. Maybe you can try and practice, but it’s practically a pipe dream to even think about getting his whole cock into your throat without choking to death on it.

But that's a problem for another day. 

For the next time. 

For now, you hollow out your cheeks and suck as you pull back, tongue swirling along the underside until his cock leaves your mouth with a wet pop, a string of saliva connecting your swollen, spit-slicked lips to his glistening tip. 

You use your hand to spread the wetness, mixing it with the precome that's leaking steadily from the flushed head. The smooth glide allows you to speed up your pace as you look up at him through your lashes, trying to gauge his reaction.

He's staring down at you with hazy, lust blown eyes, his jaw hanging open, panting heavily.

"How am I doing, Professor?" you tease with an innocent smile. A lazy grin slowly spreads on his face in return.

"You’re a fuckin’ natural, baby," he mumbles, his hand moving from where it's tangled in your hair to cup your cheek, his thumb brushing over the apple of your flushed cheek, "My good girl."

And maybe, most likely, the words slipped out unintentionally, the heat of the moment forcing out things that he doesn’t really mean. But all the alarms and sirens in your head warning yourself to not fall too deep into this trap that is Joel Miller with his pretty words and sweet praises and soft smiles are all dead silent right now. There’s not a single part of your brain that’s trying to resist him right now. You doubt you could even if you wanted to. 

Because he just called you his girl.��

His.

To say you’re fucked would be the understatement of the century. 

You hum, pressing your cheek into his palm, wanting, needing, craving more. More of his touch, his taste, his warmth, his cock, his praise. So you take him back in your mouth with a renewed determination, spurred on by his words, wanting to prove to him that he's right, that you are his good girl. Determined to show him that you can make him feel good, that you can please him, that he'll want more of you, need more of you.

And judging by the way his grip on your hair is almost painful, his thighs trembling as he holds himself still, fighting the urge to jerk his hips forward and shove his cock down your throat, you'd say you're doing a damn good job

"Makin’ me feel so good, baby. So fuckin' good," he pants when you take him a little deeper.

You whine quietly around him as you press your sticky thighs together. White hot heat pooling low in your belly, your neglected cunt throbbing and aching, slick, wet, and messy. 

You squirm in your spot, rubbing your thighs together and grinding down on nothing in desperate search for the slightest bit of friction. You pray that the movement is subtle enough for Joel not to notice. 

As if that’s possible.

“Oh, Sweetheart,” Joel starts, his tone annoyingly saccharine and condescending as he smirks down at you. “Did we forget somethin’ important?” 

Another small whimper is all you can muster, too focused and preoccupied with the way his thick length is filling your mouth, the weight and taste of him on your tongue dizzying and addicting. 

“Well look at that,” he coos, his hand leaving your hair and sliding down your cheek to cradle your  jaw. He swipes swiping over your bottom lip that’s stretched around his length, smearing the spit that’s gathered there.

“Think I finally found a way to shut ya up. We should’a done this a long time ago. Woulda saved me a lot of headaches,” he chuckles, the sound dissolving into a sharp hiss when you dig your nails into the tender skin of the back of his thigh, hard enough to leave a mark.

You pull off his cock with a wet pop, jaw aching as you glare up at him. 

"I'd shut up if I were you" you warn, the threat of your words completely lost in the breathless, desperate way they leave your mouth. "Just one good chomp is all it would take" you add, clicking your teeth together for emphasis.

But Joel's face just splits into a grin, a full blown, infuriating smile that makes his eyes crinkle at the corners. 

"Biting huh? Now that’s a little kinky. Didn't know you had it in you, sweetheart."

"Shut up," you snap, but it still lacks any real heat, not with the way your lips are twitching at the corners, fighting a smile, your eyes undoubtedly sparkling, your heart definitely leaping out of your chest at the way his eyes are boring into yours.

"Careful, sweetheart. Might have to knock you down a whole letter grade for that type of talk. Gotta respect your professor ‘n all, y’know."

"You're insufferable," you grumble.

"But yet, here you are, still on your knees."

"And I'm gonna get up and leave if you don't stop talking."

"Leave before or after you chomp my dick off? Cause I'd really like a heads up for that, if ya could."

"Jesus fucking christ, Joel!" You huff, rolling your eyes so hard it actually hurts. "Do you ever just shut the fuck up? I'm literally on my knees right now with your dick in my mouth and you're still finding ways to piss me off!"

“What can I say? It’s a special talent of mine,” he says with a nonchalant shrug, the smug smile on his face making you want to genuinely bite his dick off now.

You drop the wet hand you had wrapped around him and start to move to your feet.

"You know what, I'm just gonna go. Maybe I'll call my coworker. He's not nearly as irritating as you," you huff, pushing yourself up onto shaky legs, your knees stiff and sore. 

But you can't even take one step before he's grabbing your waist, his large, warm palm resting firmly on the swell of your hip. His fingers flex, his grip tightening, not enough to hurt, but it's enough to halt you in your tracks. You're not particularly fond of the way your heart skips a beat in your chest, the way you can feel goosebumps breaking out all over your body from just his touch. 

He pulls you in closer until your chest is pressed against his, hard, wet cock pressed against your bare thigh.

"You really think you’re gonna leave with your pussy drippin' all over the place like that?” he says, his voice seamlessly switching from teasing to low and rough as his dark, hungry eyes bore into yours. “You're about to ruin my floors with the way you're leakin' right now, baby. Wouldn’t want that, now would we?” 

Your cheeks flame with embarrassment from how easily he was able to see your desperation, and with anger at how right he is. 

"Shut the fuck up, Joel," you mumble, giving him a weak push at his chest. "I'm not leaking I-"

The rest of your sentence stays lodged in your throat when his free hand slips between your thighs. Two deft fingers drag through the slick mess, collecting your arousal and spreading it around, a soft, wet, obscene sound filling the space between you. 

You don't even think to stop the high pitched, breathy whine from escaping your lips when he slides a thick finger inside you with no warning, your pathetic sound dissolving into a moan when he immediately follows it up with a second one, his palm pressed flat against your clit.

"Not leaking, hmm? Sure don't seem like it, baby," he purrs, his voice a low, rumbling drawl, his warm breath fanning across your cheek. "Feel that? How easy it was for me to get two fingers in ya?"

"Fuck," you whine as you dig your nails into the bare skin of his shoulder, hanging on to him and desperately searching for any semblance of stability as you try not to sway on shaky legs.

He crooks his fingers in you, fingertips digging into the spongy spot on your front wall that has your knees buckling, tiny stars dotting your vision momentarily as a rush of arousal gushes out of you, a pitiful whimper falling from your lips. Joel chuckles, low and dark and the sound shoots straight to your neglected clit, a bolt of lightning arcing down your spine.

"Yeah, that's what I thought," he murmurs, nosing at the sensitive skin below your ear, the faint scrape of his beard against your cheek sending a shiver down your spine. 

The feeling of him removing his fingers is a cruel, sudden jolt, the emptiness and lack of pressure and friction has you keening, a needy, impatient noise bubbling up from your throat.

He's moving before you can complain though, stepping around you to sit on the edge of the bed and then promptly pulling you down onto his lap. You let out a small squeak of surprise as he forces you to straddle his thigh, pulling you down until your aching cunt is seated firmly against his bare skin. The position has his cock pressing against your hip, a drop of precome smearing against your skin.

"Fuckin' soaked for me, honey,” he drawls, his fingertips dimpling the soft skin of your hips. “And to think you were about to leave without gettin' what you came here for.” 

You can't even speak, too enraptured with the feeling of his strong muscles flexing subtly under your hypersensitive clit. So you ignore his teasing and just grind down instead, past the point of desperation. 

But he would never let you win that easily, would he? 

He laughs and tightens his grip on your hips, stopping your movement and holding you in place.

"Ah-ah, not so fast, baby. Let's talk about the terms first."

You give him the best glare you can muster while suppressing a needy whimper. 

"Terms?"

"Yeah. Terms. Of all this. Like if this is a one time thing, or if we're gonna be havin' regular...lessons," he replies, his hands slowly sliding up your waist and coming to rest on your ribs, his thumbs stroking the undersides of your breasts. 

"If you're gonna go out with this guy," he continues, his thumbs brushing over both of your nipples. "Or if I'm the only one who's gonna get to see this," he says, leaning forward, his warm breath fanning over your skin. You bite your lip, holding in the soft, needy moan threatening to spill out when his lips press to the hollow of your throat.

"If I'm the only one who gets to have you like this. If I'm the only one who's allowed to touch you. To kiss you," he says, punctuating his last word with a kiss to the center of your chest, his hands squeezing the swell of your breasts, his tongue flicking out and licking at your nipple.

"Or do you plan on letting him have you too?" He asks, the tip of his tongue swirling around your nipple before closing his lips around the pebbled peak, sucking it into his mouth, his teeth lightly grazing it before he pulls back. "'Cause I'm not too keen on sharin', baby."

You take a deep steadying breath, trying to clear the thick haze that's clouding your mind and focus on his words, his questions about the fucking terms. 

And you do think about it, about your coworker who's been nothing but so sweet to you, who doesn't get on your nerves in under a millisecond. The coworker, Micheal, you think, his name finally returning to you, who doesn't tease you and play games and leave you a panting, needy, dripping mess. 

And while he is really such a perfect gentleman, he isn’t the one that’s been there for you, listening to you complain about all the shitty things that have happened to you in the last year. He isn’t the man that lets you use him as a punching bag whenever you’re frustrated, has never been the calm, reasonable voice that challenges the anxiety that overwhelms you and threatens to pull you under. 

Michael has never held you when you've cried, never helped you cook dinner after a hard day at work, never fixed the flickering light in your bathroom. He certainly has never dropped a key to his front door in your palm accompanied by a lopsided smile and the words just in case ya need anything. 

Michael isn’t the one who’s been the one to pick up your pieces and put you back together, so gently and tenderly, making you even better than you were before.

It's useless, trying to avoid it. Trying to push it down, bury it, ignore it, how you've been feeling and what you want. 

It’s Joel.

All of it. 

You want Joel. 

All of him. 

You've wanted him since the day you showed up on his porch with a six pack. You've wanted him all those times you watched from a distance as he fixed something in your house, so capable and competent, casually waving away your slew of thank yous. You wanted him every single time he invited you over for a movie night, sitting close enough to you on his couch that you could feel the warmth radiating off of him. You wanted him every time he made your blood boil and your eyes roll so hard you swore you could see the back of your brain, and every time you genuinely thought you were going to smack him. 

And now, you have him.

Right here, naked and hard and underneath you, your pussy leaking on his thigh. 

The answer is so painfully obvious, the words falling from your lips before you even have a chance to process them.

"M'not gonna see him," you finally manage to say, your voice barely above a whisper. "Want this. Want you."

Joel hums, indicating that he heard you. But again, he would never let you win that easily. 

"Speak up, baby," Joel says, releasing your nipple with a soft pop, his eyes dark and intense, a predatory, feral glint in them. "Can't hear you."

And it's infuriating and annoying, absolutely maddening. And it's the last straw.

You're not sure if it's the frustration, or the pent up desire, or the heat burning inside you, or the fact that Joel's still hard, and still leaking precum against your hip, as your cunt slides against his thigh, but you break.

You absolutely shatter.

"I want you!" you practically shout, hands balling into fists where they're resting on his shoulders. 

"You, okay? You! You and your stupid, fucking, annoying ass, and your dumbass pickup truck, and your stupid, charming grin, and the way you always call me 'baby', and 'honey', and 'sweetheart'. It drives me fucking insane!  And the way you're always fixing shit, and being so fucking helpful and sweet and you always, always make me laugh, and smile, and there hasn’t been a day that’s gone by in the past year that I didn’t think about you and I can’t get you out of my fucking head, not even for a single fucking second.” 

The words spill from your lips in a breathless tirade, and it feels good, freeing. It's like a weight has been lifted from your shoulders, like a great burden has been taken off of you. 

But the feeling doesn't last long.

Silence stretches between you and it's suffocating, oppressive, and you feel like the walls are closing in on you, panic rising in your chest.

Your cheeks burn, nauseating embarrassment and humiliation coursing through you as you realize the full weight of what you just word-vomited all over him. Your chest heaves, and you hang your head, unable to bring yourself to look at him.

But then, a bright laugh sounds through the otherwise quiet room. And your eyes snap to Joel's face, only to find him smiling.

He's fucking laughing.

"Joel!" you scold, a mixture of mortification and confusion washing over you.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry" he placates, but the laughter in his voice doesn't help to ease your nerves. "I didn't mean to laugh, it's just...I just can't believe how dense you are."

The daggers you shoot at him are truly deadly. 

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"Do you think I just go around callin' everyone 'baby' and 'sweetheart'?" he asks, quirking an eyebrow.

"I..." you stammer, trailing off as his words sink in. 

"I mean, my southern charm is one thing,” he says, obnoxiously wiggling his eyebrows. “But you’re seriously thick if  you think I'm like this with anyone else.” 

You stare blankly at him, trying to process what he’s saying. 

“Do you think I let all the neighbors just use me for free handy work, think I cook dinner with all of them, think I keep a stash of everyone’s favorite snacks in my pantry, give everyone a fuckin’ key to my front door? And you think I just go around agreeing to sex lessons to anyone who asks?” He rambles, squeezing your hip. 

Your brain is reeling as you try to wrap your head around everything. 

"Well...no” you stammer, your brows pinching together.  “But…"

"How many other girls you seen me bringin' home? Huh? How many other girls you see me with?"

"None" you admit sheepishly.

"Mhm. Because I don't. Not since you moved in next door."

You frown, confusion clouding your features. You open your mouth to speak but Joel cuts you off.

"I like you, baby," he admits with a sigh. "A lot. Maybe too much. But I wasn't about to lose you as a friend just because I'm crazy about you. And if being your friend is the only way I can be close to you, then I'd take it and die a happy man."

You can only stare at him, the words he just spoke bouncing around in your brain, and a warmth blooms in your chest, your heart fluttering wildly in your ribcage.

"Are you kidding me?!" You exclaim suddenly, hitting his shoulder.

"Hey! Ow!" he barks, his eyes widening as he grabs his shoulder. "The fuck was that for?!"

"You've been trying to sleep with me for a whole year?!"

"I wouldn’t say trying," he says with a casual shrug. "Just waiting. Wanted you to take the lead but you’re a little stubborn, baby."

You scoff, glaring at him, not missing the way his lips twitch at the corners, the way his eyes sparkle with amusement.

"So, the reason why I haven't been able to catch a break the entire time we've known each other, has been because you've been trying to get in my pants? Is that what you're telling me?"

"Well, that part is just natural. You're just too easy to get riled up. And that’s not my fault."

You open your mouth to argue with him but his sliding over your hips to palm at your ass and his lips are ghosting over the shell of your ear, his beard scraping against the sensitive skin.

"But no, I can't deny that I like it," he rasps, his breath warm against the side of your neck. "The way you get all fired up and angry, your face all flushed, your chest heaving. Mmm, it's nice. You look real pretty when you're all worked up and pissed off," he whispers, his lips curled in a smile when he presses a kiss to the spot below your ear before pulling back to look at you. 

"Why didn't you tell me,” you say, voice softer now, the rough edges of your tone smoothed out by the feeling of his lips on your skin.

"Didn't want to make it weird. Didn't want you to think I was some creepy old man and ruin our friendship" he explains with a small shrug. "But then you came over here tonight askin’ for a sex lesson, which was not easy by the way, acting like I wasn't already about to burst outta my pants as soon as you asked. Thought for sure you were onto me. But then you started going on about that douche canoe Michael-"

"Joel."

"And then I got jealous and pissed, and figured it was time to cut my losses and just enjoy it while I can, but-"

"Joel."

"Then we were kissing and you were touchin’ me and you're so fucking sexy and-"

"Joel!"

"What?"

"Just kiss me, you idiot" you breathe, and before the words are even fully out of your mouth, his lips are on yours, crashing into you with enough force to knock the air out of your lungs.

It’s bruising, searing, all consuming.

His fingers dig into the meat of your ass as he pulls you forward, the seam of your pussy dragging deliciously against the strong muscles under warm skin. 

Your fingers tangle in his hair, and tug, the base of your spine tingling when he groans softly into your mouth, and you grind your hips against his, the wet heat of your cunt grinding into his thigh, pulling another soft, low sound from his throat.

"Fuck" he groans, pulling away just far enough to press his forehead to yours, his breath coming in quick, sharp pants, his chest heaving. "Baby, are you still okay with this?" he breathes, voice ragged and gravelly.

You look at him as if he's grown a second head.

"Are you serious?"

""I...well, I was serious when I said I'd be fine with being your friend, and I don't want you to think I'm tryna pressure you into anything."

You can't help but roll your eyes, the soft, endearing side of Joel coming out at the worst possible time.

"I literally just admitted that I've had a crush on you for months, and now I'm sitting on your lap, soaked, and grinding on your thigh and you're worried I don't want this? I think you might be the dense one here."

He grins, wicked and wide, a flash of sharp teeth, the dimple in his cheek deepening.

"Guess so," he says, the corners of his eyes crinkling.

You don't respond, and instead choose to silence him by pulling him into a kiss, licking at the seam of his lips and sucking his tongue into your mouth. He groans softly into your mouth, and you swallow the noise, rolling your hips again, chasing the sweet friction that's sending a delicious heat through your veins.

"God, baby," he breathes when he pulls back for air, hands on your ass gripping and guiding you against his leg, encouraging your movements. "Makin' such a mess, ain't ya?"

You bite your lip, nodding as a wave of arousal surges through you.

"Yeah, you are. Soakin' my leg, sweet girl," he says, his eyes flicking down between you, watching as your pussy drags along his thigh, coating him in a shiny, slippery sheen.

"Fuck, Joel, please" you whine, your hips jerking and rolling against him.

And that's all the encouragement he needs.

In the blink of an eye, you're on your back, Joel hovering above you, a wild look in his eyes.

"Don't worry, baby," he says, his voice low and husky, and he trails his fingers over your hip and up your ribs, his touch light, teasing, barely ghosting across your skin and it's almost ticklish, making you shiver. "M'gonna take care of you. Gonna make you feel so good."

Your heart thunders in your chest, and your cunt throbs, your arousal leaking out of you. It feels like you’re about to crawl out of your own skin, the desperation growing with every passing second. 

He trails his fingers down your sternum, and over the flat expanse of your stomach, goosebumps breaking out across your skin in his wake, the muscles under your skin rippling and twitching at the soft, fleeting touches.

And when he reaches the crease of your thigh, you let out a shaky, trembling breath, and he chuckles softly, his lips curling into a crooked grin.

"Eager, are we?" he teases, dragging his fingers over the slick flesh between your legs, gathering the wetness pooled there before slowly sliding a single thick digit inside you. "We're gonna get there, baby. But gotta make sure you're ready first. Don't wanna hurt you.”

You whimper, your walls fluttering and clenching around his finger, and your hips roll forward, seeking friction, wanting, needing more.

Joel curses under his breath and groans softly when your wet, warm walls constrict around his finger. His cock leaks and twitches where it’s pressed against your thigh, and you whimper, both of you caught up in an endless cycle of keying each other up. 

"Please, Joel" you beg, and the words come out soft, pleading, and desperate. You should probably be embarrassed at how quickly he's reduced you to a begging, quivering mess, but the way his eyes go dark, and his pupils blow wide, makes the embarrassment worth it.

"Please, what, baby?” He prods with a devilish smirk. “Use your words"

"You're such an asshole" you snap, but the venom in your voice is diluted with pleasure as he slips another finger inside you.

"You keep saying that. What d’ya want me to do about it, sweetheart? You want me to stop?" he taunts. 

"No!" you cry out, reaching down and grabbing his wrist with an iron grip when he starts to pull out. 

"Then tell me what you want, honey."

"Fuck you,” you mumble weakly. 

"Mhm. Okay, honey" he drawls,  his thumb moving  to circle around your clit as his fingers curl inside you, still pumping in and out of you at an agonizingly slow pace. . "I'll just wait then. Take my time. Tease your pretty little pussy until you can't stand it. I'm in no hurry, baby. Gonna take all night, if that's what it takes. I've waited this long."

"Joel, please" you whine again, the ache between your thighs turning to an unbearable burn.

"Tell me what you want,” he repeats casually. 

"You," you try with a needy whimper.

"Me? You got me, sweetheart. What else?"

“Oh my fucking god can you please just fuck me? Or do I have to spell it out for you, old man?"

"There she is," Joel says with a laugh, his grin splitting his face "There's my girl"

And then his fingers are gone and you whimper at the sudden emptiness. But before you can protest much more,, they're sliding back in, this time joined by a third.

Your hands fly to his shoulders, gripping him, nails digging into the soft flesh of his muscles.

"Oh fuck" you pant, your eyes rolling into the back of your head as he starts pumping his fingers again. 

"Gotta get ya ready, baby" he breathes, and his lips are ghosting along your jawline and up the shell of your ear, his breath warm.  "Such a tight little pussy, but we'll get you nice and open, don’t worry.  Then I'm gonna sink in ya, fill you up real nice. Take real good care of you, baby. Fuck you nice and deep, make you forget your name. Would you like that? Hmm?"

A strangled moan is all you can manage in response. His words, filthier and more deranged than any you've ever heard him speak before, sending your brain into overdrive. 

You can’t help but roll your hips, and bucking, and gyrating, meeting his thrusts as his fingers pump in and out of you, the lewd, wet, sloppy sounds filling the otherwise quiet room, and the coil in your gut is threatening to snap.

"Joel, Joel, fuck, oh fuck" you chant, your hazy and thick with pure arousal. It drips down your spine and flows through your veins, liquid heat burning, searing, and  scorching you from the inside out. 

You manage to open your eyes long enough to look down and see the tendons flexing in his wrist, the muscles and veins in his forearm bulging as he works you, his face brows pinched in concentration as he focuses on your reactions. 

"Oh shit, honey," Joel curses breathlessly, a smug grin stretching across his lips as he feels your slick pooling in his palm. “So messy, baby. You gonna cum? Hmm? Gonna be a good girl and lemme feel your sweet little cunt clench and drip even more around my fingers?"

You whine, throwing your head back against the pillows as he thrusts his fingers into you, the heel of his palm rubbing deliciously against your clit. Your fingers scrabble for purchase, desperately seeking something, anything, to ground yourself. You settle for the firm muscle of his arms, your nails biting into his skin and leaving bright red marks that'll undoubtedly leave little half-moon bruises later

"Fuck, yeah, c’mon, sweetheart, lemme feel. Give it to me."

You come with a cry, the dam breaking, the tension in your gut exploding outward, a wave of euphoria crashing over you, washing through every inch of your body. Your legs tremble and shake, and Joel works you through it, his fingertips nudging that spongy spot inside you, dragging his thumb across your throbbing clit, milking you through the aftershocks, and when you start to come down, you're panting and breathless, your chest heaving.

You look up at Joel, and his eyes are blown wide, the deep, rich brown of his irises nothing more than a thin, dark ring around his dilated pupils. There are no words, at least none that you can manage to articulate at the moment, so instead you let out a breathless laugh, and a contented hum, a smile spreading across your lips.

Joel grins, laughing, and he leans down to capture your lips in a chaste kiss.

"Good girl" he breathes against your mouth, his words a low, rough rumble that has you keening. "That feel good, baby?"

"Fuck, yeah" you sigh, melting into the matress. 

"Good,” he says before pressing a kiss to your forehead then pulling back to look you in the eyes again. “ Think you're ready for me now?"

“Mhm,” you murmur with a lazy nod. “Want you, Joel.” 

Joel laughs, the sound sweeter than it’s ever sounded before.. "You've got me, sweetheart. You've had me. Always will."

"That's awfully fucking sappy," you tease breathlessly, threading your fingers into his soft dark hair. 

"Well, excuse the fuck outta me" he huffs, but the feigned offense is  betrayed by the way he’s positively beaming down at you.  "I'm about to give you the best fuckin' lay of your life, and here you are makin' fun of me."

"The best fuckin' lay of my life? I haven’t even had one lay. Don't exactly have anything to compare it to."

"Yeah, well, trust me. Best you're ever gonna get.”

You scoff and roll your eyes, raising a brow at him. 

"That’s some big talk, cowboy. Let's see if you can live up to that."

Joel barks out a laugh, the sound coming out more like a snarl, his eyes flashing with something feral, predatory, and dangerous at your challenge.

And then he’s abruptly pulling his fingers from you then  bringing them up to his lips, his tongue darting out to taste the slick coating his fingers. The sight nearly puts you into cardiac arrest.

"So fuckin' sweet" he murmurs, his eyes slipping closed momentarily, and a low, satisfied hum rumbles in his chest. It's downright obscene, the way his lips wrap around his fingers, how he licks and sucks, cleaning your arousal off of them. 

"Joel," you breathe, your voice nothing more than a shaky exhale.

His eyes snap open, and he gives you a lopsided smirk. 

"Sorry, baby,” he starts, pulling his fingers from his mouth and wiping them on the blanket underneath you. “Can’t help myself. Just had to taste ya again. Gonna have a hard time not doing that every time,” he finishes with a sly smile. 

Every time. 

The words are like a shock of electricity shooting through your veins, setting your blood ablaze. Every time. As in multiple times. 

How the fuck is this real? 

He  stupid smirk is still glued to his face as he leans over to rummage around in the drawer of his nightstand. Your brows furrow when he pulls out a condom and goes to open it. 

"I...uh..." you start, but the words die in your throat.

"What's wrong?" Joel asks, his smug expression immediately morphing into one of concern.

"I...well...it's just, I'm- I'm on the pill… We can use a condom, but...it's not necessary…just wanted to put that out there. In case, you know…you didn't wanna use one. Since it's not...like, not entirely necessary,” you say quietly, casting your eyes down to where your fingers fiddle with the edge of the blanket. 

"Ahh, I see,” Joel responds, all too pleased. “You just want me to raw dog it, huh?” 

"Wha-no! Oh my god, Joel, you are so fucking embarrassing," you groan, covering your face with your hands. 

"S'okay, honey, don’t be embarrassed. It is all part of the full Joel Miller Experience anyway,” he reassures you with a sickeningly sweet tone.. 

"Oh my fucking god, I told you not to say that ever again,” you groan, shoving at his shoulder, which only makes him laugh. And you can feel yourself smiling too, despite how irked you are.

"Alright, alright, I'll stop," he relents, still laughing a little. "If you really don't want me to use one, I guess I can make an exception, just for you"

And it's as if he knows that you're about to lash out at him again, because he leans down and presses his lips to yours before you have a chance to say anything, all the fight in you draining away as soon as his mouth is on yours.

"You tell me if you want me to stop,” he whispers when he pulls back. “Or if I do anything you're uncomfortable with, or if you just need a break. You let me know, okay?"

You nod.

"Promise?"

"I promise, Joel. Please just get on with it."

"Impatient" he breathes, but  kisses you again nonetheless, soft, slow, and tender. And when he pulls away, his eyes are searching yours like he's looking for any signs of hesitancy. But all he sees is the same raw desire reflected back in your wide, eager eyes. 

You see the exact moment that the last vestiges of his self-restraint disappear, his gaze growing darker and hungrier as he pushes himself up to sit back  on his knees, one  hand around the base of his cock, the other  on the inside of your thigh as he tenderly spreads you open and settles himself between your legs.

He teases you of course, dragging his length through your folds, letting the swollen, leaking tip catch on your clit before sliding back down to nudge at your entrance. You whimper, and try to grind against him, but his hand is firm, holding your hip still, not allowing you any friction.

He hushes you softly, his thumb gently stroking the soft, delicate skin where your hip meets your thigh. "Just let me do what I need to do, baby. Let me take care of you.” 

"You're evil," you whine, squirming underneath him.

"Yeah, well, that's a matter of opinion" he grunts, your breath hitching when he lines himself up and finally, finally pushes the blunt tip of his cock inside you.

Your lips part on a gasp, the feeling of his thick head stretching you open, the slight burn of the intrusion, a mixture of aching and pure pleasure. And you can feel his eyes practically burning holes in your skin, drinking in every little reaction, every flutter of your lashes, every twitch of your brow.

"How's that?" he asks, his voice tight and strained. He looks just as wrecked as you feel, his jaw tight, a sheen of sweat already on his brow, the muscles in his forearms bulging with the effort of restraining himself.

"More," is all you manage to rasp out, pushing your hips up, trying to get him to sink deeper.

Joel grunts, and then obliges, his eyes screwed shut in concentration as he tries to feed you only a little more of his considerable length. You can see him chewing on his lip, his nostrils flaring, a slight tremble in his thighs, his fingers digging into your skin.

"Jesus fuck, you're tight" he grits out, his chest heaving as he tries to regain some of his composure. "I-I didn't…fuck, I didn't think- shit. God fuckin' damn, baby"

You smile a little, the corners of your lips curling upwards. It's the first time you've ever seen him truly at a loss for words, and it's a very welcome change. 

You reach up and card your fingers through his hair, his eyes fluttering closed, a sweet sigh escaping his lips at the feeling.

"I can take more," you say softly.

Joel shakes his head, his brow furrowed. "Not yet."

But you don't listen. Not that you ever really listen to him. 

Your impatience gets the best of you and you push yourself further down the bed, forcing another inch of his cock inside you, your walls fluttering wildly around him as you let out a low moan. 

"Ah fuck, honey," he groans, his eyes flying open.

"C'mon, Joel. More. Please," you beg, grinding down on his cock, taking just a little bit more with each roll of your hips until his fingers dig into your hips so hard, you're sure they'll leave bruises.

"Baby stop fuckin' movin'" he hisses, his grip tightening even further. "Please."

You can hear the strain in his voice, and you can feel him trembling above you, the muscles in his arms and shoulders flexing and tensing.

"Why not?" you pout.

"Cause m'tryin' not to fuckin' come right now, alright?" he grunts, his teeth gritted. "So please, just stop. For a minute."

"You can't possibly be serious," you breathe, a smile creeping on your face again. "You're not even all the way in yet."

He glares down at you, his eyes narrowing. "Not my fault you're fuckin' tight as shit. It's like your cunt is tryin' to strangle me."

You giggle a little, the sound coming out breathy and light. You don't miss the way Joel's cock twitches at the sound.

"You're being so dramatic," you sigh, rolling your hips again.

"Fuck, honey, please," he begs, his eyes pleading, and the sight is almost enough to make you stop teasing him.

Almost. 

You can't help the devilish smirk that crosses your face as you bring your hand up to his cheek, stroking your thumb across the stubble on his chin. He lets his eyes fall closed again, leaning into your touch. 

"This isn't very 'best lay your life' behavior."

"I will fuckin' strangle you," he mutters, his eyes still closed, a smile playing on his lips.

"Is that part of the Joel Miller Experience too? Because I don't remember seeing it in the brochure. Was it next to the premature ejaculation section? Or maybe the-"

The air is knocked right out of your lungs, cut off mid-sentence when Joel pushes forward. He keeps it slow but unrelenting, sinking into you in one smooth, fluid motion. You cry out, your back arching off the bed, eyes screwing shut as your fists twist in the blanket underneath you. 

It's more than overwhelming, it's absolutely mind melting the way he buries himself completely, stretching your walls, forcing them to make room for him, to mold perfectly around his length. You gasp for air between harsh pants and weak cries, the sensation of him filling you up, so much bigger than you expected, so much thicker than his fingers. You squirm underneath him, trying to get used to the feeling of his tip pressed against your cervix, the pressure building deliciously as the ache radiates from your core through your belly, to the tips of your toes.

"That what you wanted, sweetheart?" he asks, his voice strained and gruff, one hand still gripping your hip as he presses the other into the mattress by your head, holding himself up. "Is that enough for you?"

You struggle to find words, but you're not even sure if there are any in the English language that can convey just how good it feels.

"Uh-huh," you nod, blinking rapidly as the edges of your vision start to blur. "Fuck, Joel. You're so fucking big, oh my god."

You hear him chuckle, and he presses a chaste kiss to your temple.

"Not too much though, is it? Cause you were begging for more just a second ago. Thought you could take it, sweetheart," he croons, nuzzling his nose against your cheek.

"No, no, 'sgood, " you whimper, the words slurring together as he starts to grind into you. "F-fuck. Joel. Shit, that feels so good. Holy fuck.

"There's my good girl," he murmurs, pressing more kisses to your cheek and your jaw, trailing down the column of your neck. His lips brush against the sensitive skin, his breath hot against you. He lets you get used to the feeling, cursing under his breath and trying to think of anything else but the tight, wet heat convulsing around his cock.

"Doesn't hurt?" he asks with a sudden tenderness, his voice vibrating against your skin, sending a shiver down your spine.

"No," you sigh, finally starting to relax around him.

"Good. You gonna let me know if it does, right baby? Or if you need me to stop?"

You nod weakly. "Mhm."

He kisses you then, a soft, languid, and lazy drag of his lips against yours. He slides his tongue along your lower lip, and you let him in without any hesitation, parting your lips with a breathy sigh. He takes the opportunity to swallow down every little sound that spills from your mouth, kissing you with a kind of reverence, a kind of tenderness, a kind of patience and passion that makes your heart feel like it might beat right out of your chest. 

He pulls away leaving you even more breathless and dizzy, your lips tingling and swollen. And you're not sure if it's because of the kiss or the way he's stretching you so fucking wide, but your fucking drunk on it. 

He kisses you once more, on the corner of your mouth, his lips curling up into a smile when you nuzzle against his cheek, seeking out more.

"You still with me, honey?"

"Yes, yes, I'm here," you answer, your voice sounding far away, distant and dreamy. Joel chuckles, the sound making you smile. 

"You wanna keep going, sweetheart? Or d'ya need a minute?"

"I'm good, I'm good," you assure him, trying to lift your hips a little. "You can...keep going."

"Alright. Let me know if you change your mind, okay?"

You nod and then close your eyes, taking a deep, shuddering breath as Joel pulls out, just a little, his cock dragging along your walls. It's another wave of overwhelming sensation, your entire body shaking. But it's nothing compared to the feeling when he pushes back in. The same full, aching, almost painful stretch, except it's somehow even better this time, your walls gripping him tighter, pulling him in, trying to keep him there.

"Fuck, oh my god, oh my god," you cry, your breath catching in your throat, your eyes fluttering open to look up at him. "Oh, Joel, fuck."

He's hovering over you, his brows furrowed in concentration, the muscles in his arms, chest and stomach flexing and contracting as he moves above you.

"Good?" he asks, a slight sheen of sweat on his brow, his eyes hooded.

You answer with a nod, followed by a long, low moan when he starts to slowly pull out again, pushing back in a bit faster this time. He builds a rhythm, the slick drag of his cock filling you up again and again, each thrust a little deeper, a little harder, a little faster.

"You're taking it so good," he pants, his hips snapping against yours with a particularly hard thrust, the force of which has you keening and crying out his name. Your walls clench around him, a gush of slick pouring out around his cock as you subconsciously try to pull him in even further.

"God you're so fucking tight, baby. Fuckin' soaked too, dripping all over me. Fuck. So fucking wet and perfect," he groans, his voice sounding strained, almost like he's in pain. "Such a good fucking girl."

You can't do anything more than just lay there and let him fuck into you, the sounds that spill from your lips a mix of moans, whimpers and desperate little cries. Your brain feels like mush, all thought processes reduced to a single loop of his name, your lips chanting it over and over.

And Joel's not much better, the only coherent words out of his mouth a string of praises, calling you his good girl, telling you how well you're taking him, how fucking tight you are, how heavenly you feel. His hands are everywhere too, caressing, stroking, kneading, squeezing, leaving no inch of your skin untouched.

He finds a steady rhythm and you know it's not nearly as hard as he could go, not by a long shot, but every thrust and drag of his cock hits you so deep and so hard, it's a miracle that you don't shatter beneath him. And the sounds, god the sounds are so obscene, the slapping of skin against skin, the wet, squelching noises of him pounding into your dripping cunt. It's a chorus of pure debauchery, music to both of your ears, only adding to the building pleasure. 

And just when you start to think that it can't possibly get any better, he hits a spot deep inside you that has your body bowing, a strangled cry tearing from your throat. You clamp down around him and he curses, his hips stuttering, his rhythm faltering for just a moment.

"There it is," he grunts, and you can hear the smug smirk in his voice, the absolute bastard. "Right there, huh? That the spot?"

He doesn't wait for you to answer, pulling almost all the way out, and then driving back into you, hitting the same spot dead-on. And you keen and wail, your body thrashing wildly as a new wave of ecstasy washes over you.

"Yes, yes, yes," you chant, clawing at his back, digging your fingers into his shoulders.

"Yeah, I got ya," he husks, leaning down to suck and bite at the skin just below your jaw. He keeps pounding into that spot, making sure to hit it every damn time, and your vision starts to blur again, black dots dancing at the edge of your eyes.

You don't even realize you're about to come until it's crashing into you, a sudden and violent wave that threatens to tear you apart. And Joel can tell, from the way you start to shake, the way your walls are clamping down around him, the way your legs lock around his waist, and the way you're desperately gasping for air, that you're right there.

"There you go, sweetheart," he coos. "You're so fucking close aren't ya? I can feel it. You gonna come on my cock? Huh?Gonna let me feel that tight little pussy coming all over me?"

"Oh god, Joel," you sob, tears welling in your eyes, his words alone pushing you even closer.

"I know, honey. I know. Just let go, baby. C'mon, that's it. You can do it."

And then he's snaking a hand between your bodies, his fingers finding your clit and rubbing rough, tight circles against the swollen bud, and the pleasure reaches its peak, the coil in your belly snapping, sending you careening off the edge. Stars burst behind your eyelids as the most intense, powerful orgasm of your life tears right through you. Every muscle in your body tenses and contracts, the rush of blood roaring in your ears as white-hot bliss erupts throughout every fiber of your being, your walls pulsing wildly, gushing slick around his cock.

He's there with you every step of the way, murmuring praise in your ear, fucking into you and grinding his cock against your cervix, prolonging your orgasm, extending it for what feels like an eternity. And then you're boneless, spent, and helplessly limp, barely aware of the way he's still rutting against you.

"So good, baby," he rasps, his voice sounding wrecked and broken. "Fuck, fuck, fuck."

And then you feel him start to swell and his thrusts become erratic and you know he's right there with you, teetering on the edge, ready to fall. A few more pumps of his hips, his pace frantic and uncoordinated before he pushes himself back up on his knees and pulls out of you with a hiss. He jerks himself for half a second before spilling all over your belly and your cunt, hot, thick ropes of cum splashing against your skin. He grunts and hisses through clenched teeth, a few last drops spilling out onto your pussy, his cock throbbing against you.

You feel completely and utterly destroyed, every part of your body buzzing and tingling, still trembling. And your head feels stuffy and foggy, a hazy, peaceful kind of bliss settling deep in your bones.

Joel slumps down next to you, breathing heavy, a low, rumbling groan escaping his lips. You glance over at him, a lazy smile tugging at the corners of your lips. He's a sweaty, disheveled mess, and the sight makes your heart ache and swell, a rush of warmth flooding through your body.

He notices you looking at him and turns his head to meet your gaze, his own satisfied smile matching yours. You can't help but laugh, the sound bubbling out of your throat and spilling past your lips in a breathy giggle. Joel's smile spreads even wider, his eyes sparkling.

"What's so funny?" he asks, propping himself up on his elbow and rolling onto his side.

"Nothing, I just," you giggle again, and it's almost a hysterical kind of laugh, a nervous kind of relief flooding through your body. "That was…"

Joel chuckles, brushing a lock of hair out of your face, his fingers trailing across your forehead.

"Yeah, it was," he says, his voice a low rumble.

"And I…I just really like you, Joel. A lot. I don't know. I guess I'm just happy."

His face softens and he stares at you for a moment, his expression so fond and tender that you forget how to breathe for a moment. He leans down and kisses you, his lips gentle and warm before he pulls away. 

"I guess I like you too," he murmurs, his signature smirk playing on his lips. "I dunno about a lot, but-"

"Shut up, you ass" you giggle, slapping his shoulder. "I'm trying to have a moment."

He hums delightedly and presses another kiss to your forehead."M'kay, you have your moment. I'm gonna clean you up, alright?"

You pout but let him go, letting the afterglow of your climax envelop you until he returns a moment later with a warm wet cloth. His touch is tender, gently cleaning between your legs and then wiping the cum from your belly. You're still shaking, every touch sending little aftershocks through your body.

"So," he starts, tossing the cloth into the corner of the room before looking at you expectantly. "Best lay of your life?"

You laugh, your heart bursting at the seams, your cheeks starting to hurt from smiling so hard. 

"Not even close."

Thank you for reading!! I apologize in advance for any errors I do not enjoy editing!!

tagging those who asked and who might be interested:

@shewantstoknow @pedritoferg @khindahra @wand-erer5 @akah565 @thereaperisabitch @first-edition @lilyevanstan1325 @lovelyjess69 @elliesswearjar @iloveenya @harriedandharassed @c2ss1e @paleidiot @starry-eyes-love @lola8888673 @saguchiya @milla-frenchy @cayleejz @missyorkswhore @farrowroyale @abbyandersonsragdoll @glimmering-darling-dolly @katiexpunk @worhols @thecasualnope @ahintofkiwistrawberry @lulawantmula @sawymredfox @prismaticpizza @serenadingtigers @venturawriter @kyloispunk @millercontracting @jjhayhay20 @bitchesuntitled @bean-is-reading @lvl-2005 @kamcrazy123 @covetyou @survivingandenduring @pinkiec6-rubi @la-vie-est-une-fleur29 @pedroshotwifey @perfectlyfreeanalyst @plsdontmisfire @lokigonnakmsforbucky @kr-ickl3

I will not tag ageless/faceless (no pfp) blogs. If you asked to be tagged and weren't you either did not have an age/pfp or Tumblr wouldn't let me :(

[mockerycrow]

HELLO the biggest congrats on 4k, you absolutely deserve that and so many more!!!

Could I see a female!reader x Ghost with the prompt:“I had a nightmare . . . can I stay with you tonight?”

TY and yet again, congratulations 🤍🤍🤍

REASSURANCE (Ghost x Fem!Reader) — 4K CELEBRATION

authors note; thank you so much anon <3 i hope you enjoy!

[WARNINGS; not proofread (like most of my fics), silent panic attack + light dissociation, implied you’ve never seen his face, hurt/comfort.]

You know Ghost has nightmares—everyone knows Ghost has nightmares. No one really wants to talk about it because he doesn’t, but everyone has seen the man up at ungodly hours of the night, or perhaps beating the absolute shit out of a punching bag at the on-base gym.

No one except for Price knows what Ghost’s been through, but no one really questions him. It’s unrealistic to think Ghost is the only one waking up due to their dreams—even Price does on the occasion. What Ghost doesn’t do is ask for help.

You had a weird gut feeling about tonight; you weren’t really restless, but you weren’t tired. Every time you laid down to try to get some sleep, your eyelids would slowly open back up. You tried multiple methods; white noise, thinking about nothing, thinking about a story, taking a sleep remedy—nothing.

You had a weird tightness in your stomach that you couldn’t shake. It’s no big deal, you’ve had several nights like this. Nights where you stay up, half expecting something to happen. You aren’t sure if its the military-esque anxiety flaring up, expecting an attack of some sort or if it’s just one of those nights.

You’re laying in bed, trying to think of what you have to do tomorrow. Might as well try to think of something useful, right? Let’s see, you have to do morning training and then you have to eat, brief with price, it’s your turn to help the armourer—the weapons master, you like to say to piss them off—and you also have to do paperwork.

A very tame evening, you think, avoiding the Q word everyone oh so desperately hates; including yourself. Because the second you say it, you’re going to be called by Laswell, or General Shepherd, or some other CIA federal agent bureaucrat about some fucking thing that’s happening in the god forsaken world that only, and only task force 141 can handle—

—Someone knocks on your door, breaking your disorganized thoughts. Your eyebrows furrow; no one should be up, maybe Price is, or Ghost. Did you forget some paperwork? You sit up, slip your slides on your feet, and you walk to the door. You unlock the door and open it, wincing from the bright light of the hallway pouring in, and you’re met with the large figure of Ghost.

You blink, unsurprised. “Hey.” You utter. “Did I wake you?” God, Ghost sounds rough. It sounds like he garbled glass—er, maybe that isn’t the nicest way to describe one of your superiors voices right now. It’s clear he just woke up. You shake your head in response, stepping aside. “Here, come in. It’s bright.”

Ghost silently obeys, stepping inside of your room. You close the door and head over to your desk. You feel around in the darkness until you feel your lamp and you click a button, turning it on, illuminating the room just enough for you to see Ghost. He’s wearing a pair of dark grey sweatpants with one of his black, long-sleeve compression tops to go with it.

He’s wearing a basic black balaclava without the iconic skull, but.. His eyes are different. Distant and weary, cautious—panicked almost. Your eyebrows furrow together as his broad shoulders are tense, fists clenched.

“Ghost..” You call softly. He seems far away—he needs your help. “Ghost.” You say more insistently and louder, noticing the way his chest is barely moving. “Ghost, hey, can y’hear me? You need to take a breath..” You murmur, slowly approaching him.

He’s frozen but you see how his eyes flicker towards you, taking a moment realize where he is. You offer a soft smile you always show him and you nod. “There you are, big guy. Can I touch you?” You make sure to ask because you never know; a soldier during a flashback, touching them? That can be fatal—you trust Ghost as you don’t think he would ever hurt you, but you never know a person.

It takes him a moment to nod, which makes you promptly and gently grab his wrists. You gently guide him to your bed, and you sit him down. You’re nervous—you’re about to calm him down in one of the only ways you know how to, but you’re worried about the consequences you’ll receive afterwards. Oh well, you don’t care, not when Ghost’s eyes are as unfocused as they are.

The bed dips under his weight and you gently spread his legs, standing between them. You grab his arms; they’re deadweight, but his eyes flicker some recognition, allowing you to guide his arms around your waist. You guide his head to lay against your stomach, your hands cradling his masked jaw and the back of his neck.

Ghost takes in a harsh, shuddery breath which makes you hum in approval. “There you go, Ghost. Breathe, you’re alright.” You say in a mellow manner, your thumb brushing over his masked cheek. Ghost takes in another harsh breath as his arms tighten around you. You continue to try to ground him, talking and praising him for his efforts to stay calm. You know he isn’t in the right mind, but you’re still shocked he’s allowed you to touch him for as long as you have.

Something in your gut unravels as Ghost pulls his head away ever so slightly, ripping his mask off and throws it away like it was constricting his breathing. He buries the side of his face back into your stomach, taking you by surprise. Your met with his blonde hair in the low light, your heart stuttering.

You hesitate only for a moment before you bury a hand in his hair on the back of his head, your other hand returning to his jaw, your heart hammering as you note he has stubble as well as something on his skin, like deep scar tissue.

Ghost lets out a noise which you quickly hum in response. “It’s okay, let it out.. Won’t tell anyone about this, okay?” You assure him, causing another noise to escape him, almost like a laugh. “Kinda hard t’do that when a pretty girl is comfortin’ you.” He croaks, his voice broken—both his voice and sentence making your brain short circuit. You laugh in return, trying to ignore the butterflies in your stomach. “Shush,” You murmur. “Just relax.”

Ghost nods against your stomach, shakily exhaling. You stay like that for a while; neither of you are sure for how long, and neither of you care. You’re enjoying the rare vulnerability Ghost is displaying, and he’s enjoying the grounding touch you’re currently providing him. The silence is comforting as you comb your fingers through his hair, and you enjoy the weight of his head and his arms.

“I had a nightmare…” Ghost utters. You hold your breath as he looks up at you, and oh god, he’s hot. “..Can I stay with you tonight?” You’re mesmerized by the way his nose is curved—clearly has been broken a couple of times and wasn’t reset right—by the way his eyebrows are furrowed, his big, beautiful brown eyes.. You nearly forget to respond. “Yes,” You push out, resisting the urge to reach up and rub the tension between his brows. “Always.”

[puranami]

✿ Omelette ✿

A/N: A little fic based on one of the prompts I have~

Summary: Sanji finds you cooking an omelette in your underwear at an ungodly hour.

Content: Warning - my really bad attempt at writing anything outside of lil paragraph points (blz help, I have no idea what I'm doing)

Despite the scenario - it's all SFW and fluffy like dem eggs! A light dusting of pining, G/N reader. ✿

(Part 2) - (Part 3)

You had tried to sleep and ignore the rumbling in your stomach, but the harder you tried, the more you felt it, and you had finally reached your limit. If you were to be at all functional tomorrow, you needed to eat something. Only then could you try to sleep again.

Exhausted, you drag yourself from the safety and warmth of your blankets, slowly ambling towards the ship's kitchen, single-minded in your endeavour. All that mattered was appeasing your stomach, leaving you completely unaware of the sudden cold that embraced you once you had left the confines of your quarters.

Flicking on the kitchen light, you quickly gathered everything you needed, deciding that the best thing to make would be an omelette. It's an easy dish, filling, and doesn't take long to make. In other words; it was perfect!

You make quick work of prepping the eggs, seasoning to taste, even considering throwing a little cheese in there before deciding against it. It's not like you believed the myth of cheese giving people nightmares if eaten before bed, but you were so desperate to be able to sleep afterwards that you didn't want to risk it. Stranger things have happened on this ship.

The pan hisses as you pour in the eggs, sounding much louder in the empty kitchen, only amplified by the late hour.

"Don't you sass me," you grumble, "The middle of the night is a perfectly acceptable time for an omelette!"

Unbeknownst to you, you weren't the only one awake on the ship, and your late night excursion had attracted attention, clearly not having noticed any of the noise you were making.

"I thought Luffy had snuck in on a midnight raid with all the clattering," a groggy voice behind you laughs, but you are too tired and focused on cooking to even register that you had been joined by anyone. Sanji leans against the table opposite the kitchen island, fidgeting with the hem of his nightshirt, waiting for an answer that never came.

Surely you heard him, right?

"Is everything alright, darling?"

Nothing.

Terms of endearment usually prompted some kind of response, be it a dismissive laugh or an equally fond term of your own, clearly thinking they meant nothing in particular. He'd accepted pretty quickly that they wouldn't be the way to win you over, but it certainly didn't stop him using them, at least on you. The same couldn't be said about everyone else, as he was no longer vying for the affection of anyone but yourself. Sanji wondered if you'd ever noticed that.

A clumsy flip of the omelette brought him back into the moment, honestly surprised that you hadn't dropped it on the floor.

He moved his way to your side of the kitchen, round the central island toward the stovetop.

"Why are you cooking at this hhhh-" he wheezed at the end, only now seeing that you weren't in the pyjama bottoms he'd assumed you'd be wearing, but in your underwear.

He clasped one of his hands over his mouth, the other grabbing the island for support as he felt his legs begin to fail him. Keeping his eyes fixed firmly on the floor, he blurts out, "W-WHERE ARE YOUR PANTS?" as his face went fully crimson.

That finally gets your attention, but you are slow on the uptake, mind completely glazing over the fact that you had at some point gained an observer. Finally, furrowing your brows a little, you murmured a soft "What?" You knew a question was asked, but nothing else beyond that.

"Your pants, darling!" he gestures wildly, continuing to look down, knowing if that he caught sight of your bare legs again, he would lose his mind.

You stand there, pan hovering in the air away from the stove in one hand, a plate in the other, looking absolutely lost; you had completed your mission of acquiring omelette, and so your brain had decided it was no longer needed. Looking down, you see your legs and feet, wiggling your toes a little, then you look back up at the mess of a man in front of you, things finally starting to fall into place in your overtired mind.

"Oh, Sanji, what are you doing here," you ask, sweet as anything, completely ignorant to the battle he was waging internally. Once you plate your omelette, you place it on the island before putting the pan back on the stove to cool and grabbing a fork to tuck in, oblivious to Sanji frantically unbuttoning his night shirt beside you. He refuses to look directly at you until he has covered you with it, cheeks noticeably burning with how flustered he is.

"Darling, you can't do that to me," he says, almost breathless, "I am a weak, weak man; I can't handle seeing you so bare!" He manipulates your arms into the sleeves of his nightshirt, ignoring your protests when he briefly pulls the fork out of your hand in the process, before buttoning you up, doing his best to preserve your dignity.

As you feel the warm sustenance finally begin to settle in your empty stomach, you feel your brain booting back up, at least a little bit.

"Ah, shit I forgot to put on pants..." You giggle, wondering why everything was always funnier when you were tired. Taking another bite of food, you look down at your legs once again, starting to fully comprehend the situation you found yourself in. "I guess I was just too hungry." He can't help but sigh at how nonchalant you are.

Looking back up, your brain once again decides to abandon you, not from how tired you are this time, but from your eyes being met with his bare chest and abs, causing your own face to turn a charming shade of red. Sanji was always so neatly dressed, so he most you ever saw was his forearms when he rolled up his sleeves to work. It made sense that he was in good shape given his fighting ability, but it never really hit you until you saw his body tonight. There wasn't really any way to get accustomed to it, not like there was with someone like Zoro, who had his shirt off at least half the times you saw him, flashing his man tits whenever and wherever he damn well pleased.

Sanji's eyes never left you during this quiet minute, one that felt like hours, and he couldn't help but feel a hint of pride when he watched your eyes dance over his shirtless body, clearly flustered, bringing a confident smile to his face.

"Everything alright down there, sweetheart," he laughed softly.

You were clearly lost in your thoughts, it finally clicking why he was shirtless; he'd put his shirt on you. You brought a long sleeve up to your face as you dragged your eyes away, looking awkwardly to the side to your recently emptied plate. The shirt smelt like him, only without the lingering scent of cigarette smoke. It was sweet and musky. Maybe it was the lack of sleep, but you felt a wave of feelings crash into you. Feelings you knew were there but had simply brushed aside, assuming they were just a result of his natural charm more than anything. But, you couldn't so easily disregard them now.

Sanji followed your gaze. "Ah, don't you worry about that, my dear," he says, grabbing the plate and bringing it to the sink, leaving you standing in a bit of a daze. "I'll take care of things here, so you go and get yourself back to bed, alright?"

"Oh, no!" You couldn't help how loud that ended up being, surprising the both of you. "You shouldn't have to clean up my mess," you say with a more regulated volume. If there's one way to get you back in the present, it's offering to do something you feel solely responsible for.

"In all fairness, darling, you shouldn't have been cooking in my kitchen in a state of undress," his cheeks started to go pink at the recent memory. He clears his throat before continuing, "Do you know how dangerous that is?" Ah, the professional chef just can't help himself when it comes to kitchen rules.

You pout slightly as you lean back against the centre island.

"Sorry, Sanji. I wasn't really with it. Too tired, too hungry..."

He makes quick work of the dirty items you had used, all while prattling on about safety and other things you probably should have listened to. Drying his hands, he makes his way back to you. It is evident you hadn't really been paying attention.

"At least promise me this," you look up at his warm, smiling face, "if you ever find yourself in this predicament again, please come and get me."

He brushes back some loose strands of hair, tucking them neatly behind your ear.

"You know that I'm always happy to cook for you, right? Whatever you want, whenever you want it."

Returning a gentle smile of your own, you nod.

"I promise."

With that, Sanji leads you out of the kitchen, plunging it back into darkness as he flicks the light off.

You reach his quarters first since he's closest to the kitchen. He pauses outside his door, hesitating for a moment. There are so many things he wanted to say to you, yet he couldn't bring himself to utter a single word.

Oblivious, you carry on toward your own room, turning back to him to wish him a good night, nearly falling over your own feet in the process, to which he smiles, letting out a soft chuckle.

"Bonne nuit, ma chère."

Guys, gals, and non-binary pals; I tried my best! This is my very first full fic ever, so if the grammar, wording, presentation, literally anything is bad; it's bc I am completely winging it! ∠( ᐛ 」∠)＿

[martyrlamb]

✶ when the clock strikes / leon kennedy

pairing: leon kennedy x gn!reader

summary: you’re starting to think a certain agent might be faking his injuries to see you.

tags: sfw, pure fluff, a bit of angst as a treat, love at first sight basically, silly workplace love story, nurse!reader, 1 year post re4r!leon, no use of y/n, extremely mildly passively suggestive, leon takes his shirt off twice (woohoo!), kissing, swearing, leon is awkward as hell, you are too though so it’s okay, description of bruises, cuts and a muscle knot (not detailed), medical talk, slight mention of gore and blood, reader has a backstory, reader has a mother.

note: i blinked and suddenly there were 8k words in my doc idek how that happened. im actually so nervous to post because this is my first one shot ever!! my cherry has been popped… but also apologies if things are kind of all over the place bc im still trying to get the swing of it all. trying to write in the present tense was like being beat over the head repeatedly so im sure theres many grammatical mistakes in that department

word count: 8.5k (got possessed sorry)

Everyone thought you were crazy when you accepted the offer. 

It is crazy—but you aren’t stupid. You knew what you were getting into a long time ago as a nurse; people get hurt, and then you save them. Clockwork.

Years ago, you started studying to be a nurse in some middle of nowhere midwestern school. You remembered the rolling hills and the ungodly heavy blankets of snow that fell during the winter months, the fallen leaves that the snow covered. It was all so peaceful for a while… until the outbreak.

You never saw it coming, no one did, really. At least, you hope no one predicted the atrocities that were about to be witnessed by thousands of innocents without warning.

Gnashing teeth and hands with dried blood that streaked down arms like veins plagued the memory of that point in your life. It was surreal to believe that you got up that morning and made your breakfast like any other day, you slid your shoes on and grabbed your keys, and then your foot hit the front porch and the trajectory of your life changed permanently. 

The virus started as a woman with red-ringed eyes and pallid skin that reflected off of the blinding overhead lights—she looked visibly ill. That’s all that mattered at the time. You were actually the one who situated her and her husband in their room, he smiled at you and thanked you for your time and you scribbled down notes before hanging the clipboard and leaving the room for the doctor. The screeching horror music plays when you get to this part of the memory.

A type of calm before the storm. You hold your breath every time.

A few hours later people started screaming, and someone—something ran out of that room and wrenched its grip on the first person it saw. Blue scrubs dyed a nasty crimson, like crushed raspberries on cloth. The next part is a blur of running, watching your coworkers die, and using your medical expertise to help anyone who needed it. People were hurt. You saved them.

Like you said, clockwork. You try not to think about it too hard.

By the time help came, you had cramped a large handful of survivors—albeit, injured survivors—into a small house that was a mile or two from the hospital. Your quick thinking protected many people that day, and your skills were recognized.

A week prior, you were a simple nursing student who was lucky enough to be placed in a hospital, and by the next Sunday, you were being offered a position as a medic with the Anti-Umbrella Pursuit and Investigation Team. You finished your schooling, you got your specialized training, and now you’re on your way to your first assignment out of the country.

So, granted, maybe you are a little crazy for accepting such a prestigious and dangerous position after your humble beginnings. Your mother never ceases to remind you of this, with what little information you were allowed to tell her.

Iceland? she said, pulling her lips into a line. Are you crazy?

You begin to think that you are now that you stand in front of the base, arms tucked around yourself and teeth chattering as a sergeant points you around like one of his troops. Between the hustle and bustle of agents hurrying around and the amount of civilians sitting beneath the large, brown medical tent, you understand why they needed all the help they could get.

Things in Iceland were bad apparently; Umbrella thought the remote location would protect what little was left of them, and their research, from being exposed. Unfortunately for them, (and fortunately for everyone else) the AUPIT caught wind of what was happening and vowed to put a stop to it. You, freshly out of training, were sent to help with the sudden influx of displaced non-combatants and wounded agents.

Within the hour of the helicopter landing, you settle in and pull your cold weather scrubs on. 

There aren’t many other nurses—only two—and neither of them seem to be very fond of you. The head nurse is older and straight-laced, following procedure, not mingling with you unless she has to. You don’t think you’re ever going to be put on a shift with the other nurse, but they spare you a few ireful glances. It’s  like they could smell the fresh blood, and the scent made them turn their noses.

Nonetheless, you weren’t there to socialize, so you rolled up your sleeves and did your job, trying to ignore the passive aggressive looks being thrown at you from left and right. This kind of mutual ignorance worked for about three days, until you were placed on the night shift… every single night. 

Before you came along, it was determined that the night shift could be manned by one person, as injured civilians were sent to the safehouses by nightfall and nearly all of the agents were either out on work or taking a much needed rest. There was no reason for both nurses to be awake when one could conserve their energy and rest while the other worked. So, most nights you spent alone, sitting by the fire in the back of the tent as you waited for the sun to come up.

One of those nights crept up on you again. You bounce your foot against the ground until your ankle aches, sitting in a lawn chair next to the fire with a wool blanket draped over your shoulders. Nothing chirps in the distance like the environment you’re used to, the only noises that float through the air are the wind rustling bare-armed bushes and your own breathing. There was a rip in the tent whistling, too, but you’d be damned if you let the incessant noise drive you insane. You were scared of the eerie silence for the first few days, but that quickly became replaced by the complete boredom that followed it.

You blow a raspberry as you spin a pen in your ungloved hand, fingers numb and stretched stiff with cold. I’ve ought to ask someone for a book, you thought to yourself, or a new job. You immediately push the second contemplation out of your head like it was something dirty and sat up a little straighter; your annoyance made sense, but this is what you wanted to do with your life. You want to help people in need.

Not that there were many people around.

In the distance, like divine intervention, you hear the crackle of wheels against snow, and a black mini-van rolls to a stop in front of the tent. A scuffle inside ensues for a moment, then the doors open and a man comes hobbling into the shelter with his arm over another man’s shoulder. 

You nearly fall out of your seat with how fast you stand up and stride over to the men, assisting the injured one onto a cot. 

“What happened?” you ask, pushing a cart of equipment to his bedside.

The uninjured one remarks from beside you, “Some snow gave way and he went down this hill with some pretty nasty bushes at the bottom.” His voice is quick and clicky. He looks young.

Clearly, they’re two agents, judging by the leather holsters strapped around their waists and shoulders. You purse your lips and place a lantern on the cart, gently inspecting the injured agent. There’s thorns lodged along the entirety of his left side, looking a bit like a child’s crude attempt at art with toothpicks and styrofoam.

He grunts when you gently lift his arm to check underneath, and you mutter an apology before you turn to the other agent. “I can take this from here.”

The agent nods and spins on his heel, disappearing into the darkness once he stepped out into the open air. 

You turn your attention towards the man in front of you and pull on a pair of gloves, the latex makes a sharp snapping noise when you let go. His intense gaze follows your movements with great intrigue—or suspicion… you couldn’t really tell. You pick up a pair of tweezers and set them on the cart. You also finally got a good look at the wounded agent.

Blue eyes that strike down what little defenses you have and brows that spend their time permanently creased, almost erasing the space between them while he inspects you. His ability to make you feel thoroughly grilled with a simple fixated stare would have made you squirm years prior, but now you merely stare back with your eyebrows lifted. The blonde—possibly light brown haired, the darkness didn’t give much way in the form of colour—man averts his eyes first, as if he is caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

You’d be lying if you said he wasn’t attractive, but that’s not your focus right now.

“How are you feeling?” you ask, flicking on a flashlight to check his pupils. Healthy, good. He squints at you through the beam.

“Like I fell into a thorn bush.”

Looks like someone feels funny. You deadpan at him, unamused with the sarcasm while you try to help. Your expression beckons a better answer and he backpedals.

The man’s head bobs subtly, like a scale in his mind is weighing his thoughts on either side, and then he says, “I’m just fine.”

“Are you dizzy? Nauseous?”

“Fine.”

“Okay,” you reply, blowing out a not-so-inconspicuous huff of annoyed air that swirls above you in the cold. The agent raises his brow at your reaction but doesn’t seem too keen on speaking on it. “I’ll try to be as gentle as I can, but it’s going to be a lot of poking and prodding.”

He lets out another grunt that could have possibly been an Mhm… but you aren’t sure. You hold the tweezers between your fingers and begin to pluck them out, placing them on the metal pan on your cart. Clink, clink, clink. They fall from the tweezers with tiny noises.

To your surprise, he doesn’t writhe or make much noise, only occasional grunts and sighs and Shit’s under his breath when you pull at particularly deep thorns lodged in his arm. 

Even for an agent, his arms are an impressive size, which means a lot more surface area to extract from. Not that you really mind, as you would have helped him either way, but surely you would feel differently if you were in his shoes.

However, the silence is… awkward; sitting there with your face inches from his huge arms—he could definitely feel your breath fan across the surface with how his skin dances with warmth and goosebumps and you do not want the attractive agent to focus on that. So, you break it with a question.

“You weren’t wearing a jacket?” A valid query, all things considered.

He blinks at you like it was obvious. “It came off.”

“Oh,” is all you say until you extract the last thorn from his arm and begin to slide the leather shoulder holster off of him. “I just need to take this off.”

He frowns slightly, and you realize his brows had been furrowed this whole time because that was all his face seemed to know how to do. When his expression changes, you stop.

“What are you doing?” he asks.

“Taking it off so I can look under your sleeve.”

“Why?”

“You could’ve pulled something and I need to bandage you,” you pause. “Is that okay?”

Maybe you wrongly assumed that he had done this a million times. Don’t get you wrong, you know how resilient agents had to be and how good they were at their jobs, so it isn’t like you thought he got hurt often… But with a short glance into his eyes, you could tell he’s a hardened delegate with years of experience under his belt. Wasn’t he bound to need help occasionally?

The man gives you a slight nod and shrugs off the holster; it falls to the bed with a soft thud from the weight of the knife tucked into the leather. 

His muscles tense under your fingers when you roll the black sleeve over his shoulder. The feathered, pale edge of a bullet scar peeks out from beneath the dark clothing and it makes you wonder how he managed to get it. A mission? Probably. It looks old. You’ve seen scars of all kinds at that point, and each of them held a story that ended in pierced flesh. 

They remind you that they will never not be where they came from—your own scars will never not be where they came from. You shake the thought out like a stubborn rock in your shoe.

“Lucky you, it doesn’t look like you pulled anything in your shoulder,” you comment under your breath.

“If this is luck, I’d like to see what happens when I get unlucky.” For the first time, there’s humor in his tone—so faint you nearly miss it, but it makes you chuckle. When he isn’t huffing out responses, his voice almost sounds kind.

You rotate his shoulder slowly and inspect the length of his side, finding fewer thorns than the amount anchored in his arm. Still, your lips press into a line, pitying the fact that his bare skin will be exposed to the frigid, below-freezing air so you could remove them.

“Well, you should’ve knocked on wood,” you reply, “I’ll need you to take your shirt off so I can get the rest of the thorns out and check your ribs.”

Silently, the man hikes his shirt up and over his ribs for you, snaking his arm out of his sleeve and then laying on his side. 

As he comes down, stretching, he groans. You see his muscles tense under his skin when he inhales, the dips and divots of his torso flex involuntarily when the squall of air nips at his newly exposed skin. The surface holds blossoms of red and deep purple that litter themselves across his ribs like splotches of messy watercolor dripped onto paper. Scarlet scratches bleed pebbles that drip onto the fabric of the cot. 

You suck in through your teeth as you inspect the area. Even without the damage from the thorns, it doesn’t look good.

“Not good?” the agent questions as if he could read your mind. From over his shoulder, he turna his head to look at you.

“Not good. You bruised your ribs, I’d be surprised if one of them wasn’t broken.”

“I didn’t hear a crack.”

“It should be monitored for a day or two, at the very least.”

“I have to get back to work.”

“Look, I understand—“

“I’ll be fine.”

You sigh softly and remove one of your gloves to rub your face in exasperation. Unfortunately, this wasn’t your first rodeo with stubborn patients, so you slide on another glove and begin to pluck at the thorns in his torso. “You won’t be doing much work if you permanently damage them.”

He twists his head away from you again and grunts softly, muttering a short, “Okay.”

How articulate. You guess he doesn’t get paid to talk to people.

“Okay? As in…?”

“As in, fine,” he replies, then pauses for a moment as if to prove a point. “But I’m sure you have better things to do.”

You laugh at this, then stifle it into your elbow so he didn’t think you were laughing at him. He still rolls over a little to look at you, confusion laces his eyes that dart around as they go from your face to the rows of empty cots behind you. Busy? You begin to laugh again.

He can’t be serious, you think as you fan your face. You let your laughter dissipate like it was being dissolved into water. “Sorry… no, you’re right,” you snort, “I was drowning in work before you arrived, agent.”

“I’m sure,” he chirps back, the ghost of a smile haunts his lips.

“I think I can squeeze you in, though. Might have to clear some of my schedule, but… I’ll make it work.”

The pleased look that graces your face is involuntary. You find it endearing how worried he is about becoming too much extra work for you and the other nurses, despite the fact that there isn’t any reason to gather that he would and—believe it or not—it’s your job. 

The agent lets out an amused breath through his nose. “Should I be flattered?”

“Oh, of course.”

You place the last of the thorns onto the metal pan and tend to his wounds with gauze and bandages and nimble fingers that have done this hundreds of times before. Sometime along the way his body relaxed—just a little—and you think he fell asleep until he sits up like a puppet that had his strings yanked and puts his shirt on properly.

The sudden movement makes you blink, and he stares at you for a long pause filled with dead air and an expectant look in his eyes. That damn rip in the tent whistles. 

Finally, his eyes flicker down to your badge, then back to your face. “I’ve never seen you before.”

“I started here not too long ago,” you inform him honestly, a little embarrassed to admit your newbie title to a seasoned employee of the organization.

He doesn’t say anything else, so you take the reins.

“Well, I think we’re set,” you say, rolling the latex gloves off of your hands. “Let me know if you need anything, Agent…”

You never asked him his name?

“Leon Kennedy,” the agent, now with the name Leon Kennedy pinned to his face, finishes for you. 

His name twirls around your head and makes you dizzy to think about. I should have known, you think to yourself once he bids you farewell to report to his superiors. 

From what little time you spent at the base prior to meeting Leon, you had heard whispers during dinner drift from mouth to ear of the elusive agent. That he was a man of few words (immense understatement, you consider it more socially awkward, but true); that he had half of the base swooning every time he walked by (you don’t want to comment on this); and that he was immensely attractive (that is also true). You have to admit… you see why he had such an air of intrigue around him. To be so quiet after such successes he’s accomplished—people were on the edge of their seats trying to figure him out.

You also had to admit that you weren’t immune to it either. 

During your meals and breaks you found yourself playing Where’s Waldo? with Leon, attempting to catch glimpses of him in his natural state to confirm or deny these claims. Which was impressively difficult for absolutely no reason other than that he did it for his own benefit… the motive for this was lost, and still is, on you.

The few times you did spot him, he had the same clenched jaw and furrowed eyebrows. He never stayed in the same place for very long and frequently you only spotted him—or rather, his broad shoulders and white-knuckled fists as they turned corners and disappeared to do whatever he did all day. Important agent things.

Regarding your coworkers… it hadn’t improved much, either. The head nurse, who you later learned was named Winona, loosened up on you a bit—which was practically nothing when both she and the other nurse had been so cold to begin with. However, your determination to help those around you seemed to impress her… most days.

(Peeks of Leon’s ashy blonde hair stolen from cracks in the tent. His fur-lined coat hangs off of his sizable frame, enveloping his arms in the thick fabric—it makes them look even bigger. Not that you care, per say, but—

“You aren’t getting paid to stalk agents,” Winona jeers, jolting you back to Earth from your subject of stolen attention. You swear she smiles at you wryly. “Should’ve tried for one of their jobs if you wanted to do that.”

She turns on her heel and goes over to a trio of injured civilians with her cart, the knot of hair tied taut at the base of her neck stares you in the face. You’re left hot faced and embarrassed for the entirety of the next check-up with your patient.)

The endless night shifts never seem to cease rolling in and you’re afraid it’s begun to catch up on you. By the end of breakfast, when you could finally drag your corpse-like body to your quarters and into your bed, your head drooped comically into your bowl of oatmeal and some of the newer agents had a blast laughing at you. Whatever, assholes.

(You were deeply embarrassed.)

So, you opted for allowing a short nap in here and there during your shift—ten minutes at most—whenever your eyelids began to feel itchy and weighted and you couldn’t help but close them. You really couldn’t. Being sat by the fire with a hot drink made you so warm and the sounds of blowing wind lulled you to sleep in the darkness under the moon.

Truly, a terrible work performance from you, but no one was around to see and surely you’d be awoken by even a hint of an emergency. 

Tonight, you count sheep with your wool blanket tucked up to your chin and your head lolls against your shoulder like it’s about to fall off its hinges. One, two, three. They mock you as they hop into their pasture and curl up into white, fluffy spheres, falling asleep within the warmth of their home. 

From a distance, your ears almost register the sound of footsteps that approach the tent, crushing the crunchy top layer of snow under their feet as they stop in the entrance. It isn’t enough to completely wake you until they clear their throat and say, “Hello?”

Your eyes snap open and you turn your head so fast you think it might go flying across the room. Really smooth of you, considering Leon is the one to get your attention. By the smug look on his face and slight chuckle that wracks his frame, you know he isn’t fooled with your act awake performance.

He stands there, towering and rigid, unlike the night you first met him, with his palm outstretched flat like he’s trying to show the world something. 

“Oh, hey, what do you need?” you reply quickly, standing from your chair as you let your blanket fall off of you.

Leon glances at his hand and then at you. “I, uh, got a papercut.”

“A paper cut,” you repeat, just to make sure you heard him right.

“Yeah.”

You stare at him for a moment, mouth agape as his words register as something he was actually saying to you.

“Well, get comfortable, then. I’ll patch you up.”

In reality, you’re terribly confused about a special forces agent needing first aid for a paper cut, but how could you complain? He needs help and you’re there to offer it. 

The blonde sits on a cot near the fire—not before picking up your blanket from the ground and placing it back on the chair, though—and you situate yourself on a stool facing him. 

You take Leon’s hand in yours gently and inspect the wound. It’s fairly shallow, but placed in the center of the webbed skin between his index finger and thumb. Tough spot. When your digits graze his rough knuckles he inhales sharply and you glance at him due to the sudden motion.

He doesn’t expect a reaction from you because he pauses for a second then asks, “You think I’ll live?”

“I dunno,” you answer, sucking your teeth. “Could be a close call.”

“Yeesh.”

“I know. My condolences.”

“For myself?”

“Uh-huh.” You turn his hand over so his palm faced the sky. “This’ll sting.”

When you disinfect the injury, Leon’s face twitches into itself but he keeps quiet, opting to focus his gaze on your face while you patch him up. You try not to shift under the intensity.

“What made you want to do this?” he queries, his voice cuts through the silence and startles you a bit. Leon looks pleased with himself and you roll your eyes.

“You’ll laugh.”

“Why would I do that?”

“It’s corny.”

Admittedly, it was—the original story as to why you wanted to be a nurse. You’ve had people laugh at it before and you mostly don’t want to repeat history with someone you find rather charming, but something in Leon’s face softens and he shakes his head briefly. 

“Try me,” he challenges.

“Oh, fine.” Like there was a fight put up when you relent, smoothing a bandaid over his cut. “You know those things you’d fill out as a kid? Where it’s like, what do you want to be when you grow up?”

Leon nods.

“Every single time, I would write superhero,” you laugh sourly because you got used to other people laughing when you said this, but he listens as if you’re the only sound he’s ever heard. “I’d draw myself with a little cape and all that. Then at a certain age the teachers start telling you, pick a real job, pick something that exists. And, I dunno, I thought: there are real superheroes. They save people every day because they want to.”

“I mean, I always knew I didn’t have all the right assets to be the one rescuing people from burning buildings and punching the bad guys. I wanted to help people when they couldn’t help themselves, you know? I can't carry the weight of the situation—it’s just not in my nature—but I can carry them. That’s why I started doing this, I guess.”

The look he gives you when you finish speaking is indescribable. He gazes deeply into your face like he’s trying to find a new feature he missed the first time. Something akin to pulling apart your mind with his eyes as if it’s clay made for the shaping and a load of a melancholy that’s too heavy for him; like he’s asking you, how do I carry it? Tell me how to carry something like that. 

Your hand still lingers in his, over the bandaid you placed on him; you slide yours so the curves of your thumbs interlock and you grip the hilt of his palm. A hidden embrace.

Leon’s eyes dart toward your hands and he makes no effort to remove you from his grasp, his fingers relax against your wrist. He feels your heartbeat. You feel his. When he looks up again, all he sees are your eyes. 

You don’t know why you went on that anecdote in the first place, not really. Only that you were finished patching him up and wanted—needed—him to linger for a bit longer.

“What about you?” you ask, voice hushed close to nothing.

“I wanted to help people, too.” He sounds uncharacteristic—sheepish? “That’s it… I can’t follow up with something as articulate as you.”

“It matters just as much even if you can’t express it,” you assure him, your head tilts. 

Leon clears his throat and nods, slipping his hand from yours and looking anywhere that isn’t you. You created a shadow in front of his face, back facing the fire, but you can see the subtle dark tinge of his cheeks when he avoids your eyes. He chooses to look at his feet. There he goes, being endearing again, you think.

The harsh edges of his face are lit up with an orange glow, darkness shoots somewhere in between in a soft gradient, and he looks positively ethereal. If you reached out and cupped his face, you know it would be warm to the touch like laundry right out of the dryer. It makes him look all the more delicate and this feels more natural than the pointed looks and pinched expressions he usually wears.

You look back down at his hands. You’re trying to memorize the way they felt against yours (coarse and hot to the touch) and you get the picture of how hopeless you are—even an idiot could see you have a crush on him. 

That doesn’t stop you from protecting your pride and you keep it to yourself. You stand up to put the disinfectant supplies and box of bandaids away without a word. 

Leon stares at his hand like it’s missing a piece.

You have your head buried too deep into the cabinet to think much about that. Screaming at yourself was an understatement for what you’re doing in your head… a better description would be begging the floor to swallow you entirely with one gulp.

Surely, Leon has someone at home. He’s an attractive, intelligent man with an arguably stable job that pays him oodles more than he would ever need; not to mention how well-built he is, but again, for what seems like the millionth time you push this thought to the back of your mind. You could not focus on that.

“Are you okay?” his voice carries from the cot.

You take a moment’s breather and shut the cabinet door. “I’m good. How are your ribs?”

“They’re good.” Leon pauses, then adds. “Thanks.”

The shake of your head comes faster than your words; muscle memory. “It’s what I’m here for.”

“You do a good job.”

“I’m just a medic.”

“A good one.”

As you utter your gratitude for his comment, you hope he couldn’t feel the heat radiating off of your face from so far away. You weren’t one to get shy from such simple words, but you find your eyes glued to your boots because of his gentle bonniness. Damn you, you curse at him in your head—it held no weight.

The blonde stands from the cot and walks over to you. He bends slightly to catch your eyes in his. “I have to go now, but... yeah. Thank you.”

“Of course, Agent Kennedy.”

“Don’t start using formalities now,” he half-laughs, half-breathes. His face contorts when he stretches back, and his hand came up to massage his right shoulder—you even go to comment on this movement, being a medic and all, but he beats you to it with a smirk. “Stick with Leon.”

And then, in a few strides, he’s gone as fast as he came. 

Your entire body deflates when you let out a guttural sigh. How come every time you watched his back, you were left reeling?

Unfortunately for you, that blasted man had ingrained himself into your head, sitting pretty in your thoughts as snug as a bug in a rug while you tried to do your job, or attempted to focus on anything other than your feelings for him. On the contrary, he returned to clearing out Umbrella facilities for the time being, which meant he was out of the base for days, or even weeks, considering he was one of, if not, the best agent they had. This saved you from the embarrassment of being caught trying to catch glances of him from inside the tent or during meals. 

This, however, did not stop you from daydreaming when work got slow. 

You wondered how someone like Leon behaved domestically, if he was completely different outside of the AUPIT, or if he was still just the sweet, reserved man who needed your aid often. Did he have any pets? What music did he listen to? You guess you’d have to ask him later, but you imagined that the pieces would fall into place and suit him. They’d be so perfectly Leon that when he told you, you would think to yourself, huh, why didn’t I think of that?

The amount of daydreaming you did was not lost on Winona, and occasionally she snapped her fingers in front of your face and grumbled under her breath, “I’ll kill that boy.” With no real threat to her tone. 

Please, you can’t help it. He has arms with the muscle definition of a god and he told you-you were a good medic; you were a goner before you even realized it.

On the other hand, your family never let up with their pleas for you to return home, despite the fact that it simply wasn’t possible unless you had a very good reason for it. Which you didn’t, and you didn’t want to—people just didn’t get it through their heads that, yes, your job was difficult, and yes, patients got on your nerves sometimes, but no, you wouldn’t trade it for the world. This meant more to you than anything else you could fathom. You knew the fear these people felt first-hand, and you knew they needed a saving grace; just like you had.

(“Just come home,” your mother coos into the phone, her voice static-y and chopped from the poor signal. You could imagine her face right now, all worried and exhausted like you’re a child balancing on a wet playground. “There’s a hospital not too far from here… I’m sure they’d take you.

You promptly spend the next hour explaining to her that it isn’t that simple, even if you wanted to, and you remind her every few minutes that you aren’t going to leave, either. You’re happy, all things considered; which is why you make the executive decision to leave out all of the bad parts of your work so far.)

As for the efforts against Umbrella, you hear whispers of successes during dinners and fewer agents appeared at the medical tent’s door in need of assistance than when you arrived. So, you think things are going rather well for your organization. Less tired eyes and solemn faces; the fight wasn’t over, but everyone could rest a little easier with every night that passed. 

And yet, those damned night shifts. You swear Winona and that other medic were scheming against you for no reason other than pure spite, on the basis of simply because they didn’t feel like doing it. It has to be funny to them by now, seeing you half-asleep at breakfast and looking all mussed at dinner because you woke up ten minutes prior. You let them laugh all they wanted because frankly, you began to enjoy the night shifts. The world went to sleep, and you enjoyed some peace and quiet.

You kick your feet up onto a stool and drape a blanket over your legs, book in hand. The soft sounds of Icelandic pop music crackles out of the radio and floats throughout the tent. You mouth the noises of the songs, unsure of the lyrics, but you’ve heard it so often by now, you could recognize the tune from the first few beats. You scat a few of the instruments, tapping your foot along. You don't notice the figure that stopped in the doorframe. 

“Enjoying yourself?” Leon. You shut your book and turn to look at him, embarrassed. “I always feel like I’m coming at a bad time.”

“Never,” you reply with a haste that humbles you further. Worried about his sudden appearance in the medical tent after being gone on agent duties for nearly two weeks, you ask, “Are you okay?”

The corners of his mouth upturn and you barely see a flash of uneven teeth between the slit it creates, cute. This distracts you from how smug his face is. “I think I have a fever.”

“A fever this time?”

“Yep.”

“Make yourself comfortable, Leon.” 

A paper cut, then a fever. You begin to think of his inability to soothe his minor maladies as an excuse to visit the tent. Your stomach flutters at the thought, but you have to make sure… just in case he’d fallen ill out there in the cold. 

You find the thermometer and placed it in his mouth gingerly. It hangs crooked from the corner and he watches you with a certain keenness that makes you smile. After a few minutes, you check his temperature: 98.7. An amused hum escapes your lips without meaning to.

“Dying?” 

“I don’t think you have a fever,” you answer, using the back of your hand to press against his forehead and cheeks. The first cheek is cold, then the left cheek warms under your skin—Leon’s expression falls bashful. “But if I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were looking for reasons to come see me.”

It’s his turn to hum in thought. “Maybe.”

“You could just come talk to me.”

“You’re on the clock,” the blonde reminds you, grunting. In a swift movement, his hand presses into the curve of his neck and he rotates his right shoulder, face straining.

You see an opening. “That I am. What was that?”

“What?”

“Your shoulder.”

“I was stretching.”

“Does it hurt?”

Leon grumbles a response under his breath, unimpressed that you might have found something you could actually treat him for. You raise your brows. “I’ll take that as a yes. Let me see.”

“It’s fine.”

“Agent Kennedy.”

He pretends not to hear you.

“Leon.”

“Fine,” he gripes like a child being forced to get a shot and maneuvers to lay his stomach flat on the cot, his back faces toward the ceiling. He takes off his brown, fur-lined jacket and discards it onto the next cot over. You get a whiff of musk and cinnamon from the breeze it makes.

The shirt that clings to him left nothing to the imagination—a tight, black compression shirt stretches snugly over his muscles. You spread your fingers like fans to warm them up, then begin to run them over his shoulder and along the meat of his back. 

You tsk, full of knots. This man needs a masseuse. You make a mental note to refer him to a good one you knew. 

With the issue at hand, though, you find an impressive knot in his shoulder, which is likely the cause of his discomfort. 

You huff, your work cut out for you. “There’s a big knot in your shoulder, Leon. How are you living like this?”

“I wake up and roll out of bed.”

“I need to get this out.”

Leon turns his head, his cheek presses to the cot. He gives you a look that says nothing short of, are you serious?  You smile as sweetly as you can at him, an attempt to coax him. To your surprise, he averts his gaze fast and relents. The blonde agent sits up and shrugs his shirt off. It’s tossed next to his jacket.

Under the fire light and the dim glow of lanterns that hang in a line down the center of the tent, strings attached to the ceiling, you see the way chills prickle over the surface of his skin. Goosebumps, like rolled carpets being kicked open, unfurl down his arms rapidly and he lays down on his stomach once again. 

Your face burns in the dark—you’d be surprised if you aren’t glowing like one of those lanterns from the amount of heat it exudes.

You use a dollop of skin cream to keep the area relaxed and pliable as you work out the knot with your fingers. You push it in the right direction until you got it in a better spot, then you knead it firmly. It crackles within his body.

“Fuck…” he groans in relief, nestling his head into the fabric of the cot as he sighs. “They teach you massages in nursing school?”

“That might be just a learned from life thing,” you state in total honesty. You wipe the excess lotion from your hands on a rag. 

Curiously, he peers at you from the corner of his eye. “You have someone back home you do that to?”

A laugh falls from your lips, though your face feels even hotter than before (if that is even possible). “No—not at all.”

Leon lets out a pleasant hum and sit up from the cot. Good, he says without saying it. 

He snatches his shirt and tugs it over his head; you pretend to make yourself busy so you have somewhere other to look than at him. You hear him sigh with great reprieve as he rolls his shoulder back and forth, it must’ve felt like a freshly oiled hinge.

He comes up behind you, his shoulder skims the back of your neck when he peers down at what you were doing on the counter. Which is a whole lot of nothing; moving cotton swabs from one container to the other, counting how many rolls of gauze you had left for the hundredth time. Mindless hand ministrations to distract you from the heart that pounds in your chest.

“Is this what you do all night?” he questions, mildly amused.

“Sometimes.”

“Must be glad I showed up.”

“Something like that,” you tease, glancing up at him with a coy smile.

You watch his withstraint break a little inside of him. He inhales sharply, losing the words you said somewhere between your eyes and your lips—he couldn’t focus with your faces so close to each other and neither could you. Leon reaches for the hand that rested on the other side of you and drags you in between him and the counter, twirling you to face him. Then he pauses and appears lost, like he doesn’t know which way is left and right.

Maybe he doesn’t know what to do, you think. You don’t really know either, so you go on about what you do know.

“You should probably use kinesiology tape on your shoulder,” you comment, suddenly becoming hyper-aware of all of your limbs. His eyes don’t leave your lips. You’d be a liar if you say yours left his.

“Yeah?” 

“Yeah.”

The man’s body heat radiates off of him and it’s magnetic, pulling you closer, away from the bitter cold. Your breath hitches. His hand hovers over the curve of your neck, then it decides to rest on the side of your jaw, thumb pressed against your flushed cheek. You remember the texture of his warm palm, coarse and calloused from years of wear.

You try to memorize every fine line and crease that scuffs your face as he beckons you to close the gap with the slight tilt of his head. I’d make a terrible agent, my resilience is slim to none, you theorize when your body moves before your mind does. His mouth hovers over yours, his breath traces your cupid’s bow. You close the distance enough that your lips graze each other until someone clears their throat from a few feet away.

Winona stands like a judgmental statue, thin brows raise expectantly. You, and Leon, jump away from each other. It rocks the counter with a loud clatter that echoes. 

“Agent Kennedy,” she acknowledges him first as a sign of respect. He nods back awkwardly. “You two look like you’re  enjoying yourselves.”

Neither of you talk for a moment and you find  yourself desperate to create any word that could explain what that was. Leon’s eyes dart around the room.

Finally, something solid comes to your tongue. “I’m sorry.”

And then she laughs in both of your faces. Her hand waves like it’s fanning your words away from getting inhaled. You and Leon glance at each other, brows knit in honest confusion.

“Kids,” she exhales. “Stop distracting my medic, Kennedy.”

Then he speaks, but it sounds more like a nervous cough. “Yes, ma’am.”

Winona shoos him with a gesture of her wrinkled hand and he musters a sheepish, apologetic smile for you as he hurries away from the tent. You don’t make much of an effort to move as you prepare your ego for the chew out it’s about to receive.

“And you. Try to keep the fraternization out of the tent.” With that, she continues past you to search through some files, snickering to herself and shaking her head.

You aren’t about to push your luck. You get to keep your job and ego intact, and that’s enough for you. So, you whisper a quiet, “Yes, ma’am.” And go on with your day.

The encounter with Leon left you feverish and all tingly in every limb whenever it crossed your mind over the following days. You saw him out and about around the base, and during meals he offered you frail waves that faded in a breath. 

Truth was, you’re too afraid of rejection to ask him about that night—go figure. Maybe you’re a cliche. Maybe you’re both cliches. Who cares? Well, you do, and you thought the ruffled, pink-tinted expressions on Leon’s face whenever you crossed paths meant that he did, too, but neither of you made a move to approach the other. You questioned if you would rather be told that his only plans for you was a short work fling with no strings attached, or if he felt the connection that you did. A terrible predicament, really, and soon your desire for a straight answer outweighed the fear of hearing something you didn’t like. 

When you went to find him in the meal tent, sitting alone in one of the back corners, he wasn’t there. Okay. You waited, then decided to check the nooks and crannies of the base where you knew he hung around, and nothing. Leon vanished into thin air the moment you gathered enough courage to speak to him. Somehow you thought he read your mind and planned for this to happen, just to be able to tease you without being present. But that was simply ridiculous. He had to go to work, just like you had to do yours.

A week went by, then two; no sign of Leon’s reappearance cropped up and you began to worry you wouldn’t get the chance to speak to him at all. The only reminder that soothed you was the fact that you knew the organization was on the home stretch for completely wiping Umbrella’s power in Iceland. This reassured you for many reasons. Mainly, that you’d be able to sleep in your bed again at a proper time that didn’t leave you exhausted; but you also found comfort in the idea of finally getting a word with the blonde agent that clung to your brain like a disease once everything was over. 

Of course, you had fleeting thoughts that he died and you’d forever be left wondering about what could have been. But, that was just ridiculous—he’s Leon Kennedy, the agent that saved the president’s daughter from certain death. So, you chalked it up to your anxiety being built up as doubt about the succession of the mission began to be put to an end. That yes, you would all return home soon, and no nothing terrible and tragic would happen just as you were about to win.

Eventually, you all received the verdict of the mission. Success. The sun shone through the clouds brighter that day, in ribbons of gold that elevated all of your senses to something dreamlike. Another catastrophe prevented. More people saved—clockwork. To say you were pleased with the conclusion of your first ever out of country operation would be an understatement; you were ecstatic. 

Still, you find yourself fretting over that thing with Leon as you help pack up the equipment in the medical tent.

Winona, who has grown increasingly engrossed in your love life, gives you a knowing look when your lips tug downward and you send a pointed glance toward the entrance of the tent for the tenth time in the last hour. She tsks and shakes her head. It gains your attention. 

“Just talk to him,” she insists, shoving a couple boxes of bandaids into the case. She’s unimpressed with your antics and just wants you to get a move on. 

You sigh and preen your hair like he’ll walk in at any moment. “I haven’t seen him.”

“Hopeless,” she grumbles in response. “Hopeless. If you won’t do something about it, stop looking at the door like a kicked dog and help me.” Winona retreats further into the tent and you succumb enough to follow her.

You must glower the whole time because she won’t stop sending you dirty looks while she tapes the cardboard boxes with a tape gun. Her movements are threatening. You try to fix your expression when the line of spokes reflects off of the bright horizon outside the tent as it slices the tape.

After the innards of the tent are packed into a dozen or so boxes, you’re the person left to pick them up one by one and drop them off with the rest of the cargo that needs to be shipped. Your back is sore from the sorry excuses of beds you have and your arms ache from hours of cramming things. Kicking snow with each shuffled step, you heave out a lengthy sigh and pause to breathe. There’s a reason I’m not an agent.

“Need a hand?” Leon asks from behind you. You’re wondering how he’s always sneaking up on you.

Still, you nod and can’t help but be relieved. “Please.”

Like it’s filled with air, he takes the box from your hands and cocks a barely-there grin at your awed expression. Smug and content, he marches ahead with you in tow. You don’t really know what to say to him, if anything at all. 

You walk alongside him for the first time in the daylight, and you take in his features now that they aren’t muddled in the darkened firelight or blurred by distance. He’s chiseled, sunken cheeks and high cheekbones with that intense look on in his eyes—but there’s something else—boyish, is what you think. Soft jaw. Moles and freckles litter themselves across his face. 

Leon is beautiful and you would like to kiss him right now.

He stops at the drop off point, places the box next to the others and turns to you. Suddenly, he looks nervous and you feel some resolve escape your mind. He’s about to ask you something. He opens his mouth, rosy lips parting and you break—you pull him behind a tall stack of boxes and kiss him.

The collar of his jacket is clutched between your fingers in a moment and your lips are on his; the fur tickles your skin. His lips are chapped and cold but you create warmth within him, you could be a summer’s day in this frigid air. His hands come to your waist, then your hips and his fingertips make indents when he holds you tight like this was always supposed to happen. When you part, you’re both breathless.

He searches for his words again, the question he was going to ask. “Would you—dinner? On me.”

You hum in faux thought and peck him on the lips again, then again, and a third time for good measure. He smiles into the last one.

“I’ll take that as a yes.”

“I’m surprised you didn’t start that by saying you stubbed your toe and needed my help.”

Leon chuckles. “I thought about it.”

He pulls you in again, tongue grazing your bottom lip. You lean in further, desperate for connection until you both go slipping like baby deer. The thin layer of snow on the ground left everything icy. He tumbles into some supplies and you land on top of him. You’re both laughing into each other’s mouths. You’re both happy.

You chime together, like clockwork.

[harmonictechnicality]

Steve wakes up around three or four in the morning almost every night. He’s always careful getting out of bed. Small movements, slow footsteps. Minimal bones cracking. Doesn’t want to wake Eddie. Not that he needs to be this careful because his boyfriend could sleep through several natural disasters (and if someone bothered to wake him in this scenario, he’d put an impotency curse on them or some equally fucked-up shit). 

But that’s one of the reasons why they work. Not because of the sad-dick curse thing. They just exist on different sides of the scale. The raging insomniac and the deepest sleeper known to mankind. It balances out in the weirdest possible way.

Still… he’s always careful. Can never be too careful.

Steve doesn’t really do much when he wakes up at this ungodly hour. He sort of walks around their duplex, drinks a glass of water, opens a window to breathe in that pre-sunrise air. It fills his lungs up differently than normal air. At least, it feels like it does.

Like less people are breathing it in. Like he can take up space without feeling selfish. The logic doesn’t really add up but whatever. Concepts like logic and science are overrated at four in the morning.

After another lap around the place, he slides back into the covers, drapes an arm over Eddie’s waist. His t-shirt is rumpled up to his chest, so Steve is met with linen-warm skin. His fingers curve into Eddie’s sides, pulling himself closer. 

Steve yawns, breathing out all of his pre-sunrise air. Inhales the scent of his boyfriend instead. Smiles like an idiot into the pillow because it’s totally a fair trade.

And Eddie… well, he doesn’t even budge - doesn’t even stir when Steve settles in next to him. He just continues to wheeze through his nose, mouth slightly open. Not quite a snore, but Steve will probably tease him about it in the morning regardless. 

This right here. This makes Steve’s shitty sleep cycle worth it.

The sun pokes through the window blinds. Eddie pokes Steve’s cheek. Too much poking going on for Steve who definitely didn’t get enough sleep, per usual.

“You got up last night.” Eddie mumbles, still lazily poking him. 

“How’d you know?”

“Bed felt different.”

Oh. The way Eddie says it. A crash of honesty. His voice sounds weathered, unused from sleeping. Barely awake. It sort of hits Steve’s heart like a crime he didn’t even know he was capable of committing. 

Honestly, he doesn’t get why last night would be any different. Steve gets up most nights, not just last night. But Eddie looks particularly wounded by this (new) realization, so Steve probably shouldn’t point that out right now. Maybe in the afternoon when Eddie is more alert. Less… offended.

“Well, I’m back now.” Steve grabs Eddie’s index finger, the one poking him, and places it over his own lips. Bites at it gently till Eddie pulls away in protest. He’s smiling as he swears. Lets out a string of half-hearted threats about how he’s gonna pour Steve’s hair supplies down the sink for such a vicious attack. 

It’s a little irresistible when Eddie gets like this. When he’s the pouty one instead of Steve. All he can think to do is reach out, curl his hand underneath Eddie’s chin and pull him in. Eddie moves so easily, gives up his one-sided fight long enough to kiss Steve. Hands running up his back, legs hooking around Steve’s thighs.

Drowsy, morning kisses are so good. So, so good. Their lips feel heavier, their motions feel thicker. Every touch is guided by pure need. Steve fucking needs this, to feel Eddie curving into him, arms framing his own, groaning every damn time they break away. It all makes Steve feel needed too. Needed by the guy who changed the trajectory of his life by asking Steve to ‘hang out or something’ two years ago. 

Or Something turned out to be absolutely everything.

“New rule.” Eddie huffs, drags his lips down Steve’s jaw. “For every hour you spend awake during the night, you owe me.”

Steve laughs. “I owe you, huh?”

“Mhmm. You owe me an extra hour of wallowing in bed together in the morning.”

“What about work?”

“The hours will have to rollover, I guess. Accrue interest.” Eddie lifts up from Steve’s neck, eyebrows raised. Clearly having too much fun with this. “We can hash out the details over coffee and burnt toast.”

Typically, Steve would play along, continue the little comedy routine that Eddie starts up. But he’s so damn tired from the lack of sleep and early fucking wake-up call. So instead, he tugs Eddie back down by his collar and whispers, “Whatever you say, baby.”

Because that’s what it boils down to. He’d do anything for Eddie to kiss him this deep, till their lips blister and their jaws ache. Steve would give every fragment of lovesick happiness in his heart, just to hear the way Eddie says his name all breathy and raw. 

He can’t say that out loud, dear god no. Eddie would mock his ass into next century. So Steve just hums into Eddie’s mouth, twists the collar of his shirt enough to permanently wrinkle it. They’re verging into that gray area between cable-approved makeout sessions and dry humping till the alarm goes off. If there wasn’t an alarm to worry about, Steve would already have Eddie’s boxers already his ankles and moaning his name the way he likes it best.

Whoever invented alarm clocks are the ultimate boner-killer.

Steve ducks his head into the crook of Eddie’s neck, lays a few quick kisses on top of his shoulder. Hopes that translates to, ‘I wanna suck you off till there’s nothing left, but I’m a boring fucking adult with a boring fucking job.’ 

The translation must be clear enough because Eddie rolls off of him and heads to the bathroom. Seems just as grumpy about it as Steve. Good. They can be cranky together.

When he comes back out, they get ready for their respective work shifts. Steve looks over, watches Eddie struggle with a tangled portion of his hair, before giving up.  Accepting defeat way faster than Steve ever would. “Uh, Eddie?” He tries his best to hide his snickering through the question.

“Yeah?”

“Why does it matter if I wake up sometimes?” Okay. Most times.

“You’re gone.” Eddie shrugs. “Simple as that.”

The reaction is too mellow for Eddie though. Shrugging and dismissiveness? Nah. He’s downplaying the shit out of whatever he’s feeling, and Steve’s not having it.

“What do you mean it’s simple?”

“It’s just… I don’t know. Doesn’t seem fair.” Eddie checks the clock, then sighs. “I want more time.”

More time? More time with Steve or more time in general? Either way, it doesn’t add up. They’re young - they have all the fucking time they could ever want. Also, they live together and have all the same friends. It’s not exactly a logical theory.

Then again, neither is Steve’s ‘pre-sunrise air supply’ theory. None of it makes sense. But at least they’re here. Wanting fresh air and each other. That’s enough logic for a lifetime.

“Hey.” Steve walks over and takes Eddie’s hand. He taps over his ring finger, the one that symbolizes something they can’t have. Not now, not in this society. Still. It means something. So he stares intently at it, rubs over the place where a ring might sit. Thinks that Eddie would pick out something bold. Something gaudy and perfectly him.

More time. Steve gets it, he does. He releases Eddie’s hand and nods. Smiles.

“I’ll steal us as much time as I can, Eddie Munson.”

[peachesofteal]

That nurse au? Devoured it and it lives in my brain rent free. If Simon and Johnny notice the bruises on Nurse do they share looks? Maybe Johnny tries to gently ask about them? I loved this so much.

Anon is referencing this. The way nurse x ghoap has spread through my brain like a flesh eating bacteria is insane. And I can't actually answer this ask because I'm writing it as a fic but I'm happy to give you a little possible snippet/glimpse/ramble down below:

The tablet in your hand chimes, drawing your attention away from the vending machine and to it's far-too-bright-for-this-ungodly-hour screen, to where it displays a status change in red.

268: 38.5 degrees.

Fuck. You abandon your sub par dinner options for nearly sprinting to the room, slowing to a walk to take long, deep breaths before your knuckles are rapping on the glass. Get control of yourself. Simon is too perceptive. He will panic. It could be nothing.

You don't even bother acknowledging your thought process there, the truth that is starting to bleed from your heart, through your body like a disease. The reason why you check on them so often, the reason why you can't stop thinking about them, even when you're off shift. The reason why, when you go home in the morning to go to bed, you drift off thinking about Johnny's sleepy smile, or Simon's voice, humming in your ears.

"Hi." You whisper when you slip inside. He straightens a bit in the armchair, but you're happy to see he's using it as a recliner now, progress from last week when he wouldn't even let himself lean backwards, or fall asleep willingly.

His brow furrows above the black mask.

"Hey, everything alright?" Shit. You're not surprised, you were just in here, after all. Spending too much time sitting in the chair opposite him, next to Johnny, on your break before your patient fell asleep.

"Yeah, I ah... have to draw some blood." You really do not want to wake him up, or alarm Simon, but you also refuse to lie to either of them. You fire off a text to the attending on call, just to advise him of Johnny's temperature and the impending labs that he can expect, before sliding a drawer open as softly as possible and pulling out everything you'll need. You can feel his gaze burning a hole in your scrubs, his ever present scrutiny impossible to escape. Sometimes you think he might be reading your fucking mind.

"He just fell asleep." He protests, and you think, you imagine, that he's frowning behind the mask. You think you almost know what it looks like, strong mouth pulled downwards in consternation, wide jaw gnashed tight.

"I know, but he's running just a bit of a fever." He jolts, and you hold up a hand in caution. "It's not too high, so I'm not super worried, but we'll need to check his white cell count, just in case okay? And then we'll go from there."

"Post op fever is common." He repeats the words you told him last week, after Johnny's second surgery, the one where they went in for the pneumothorax complication, and you nod to reassure him.

"Right. So, just going to do a quick blood draw and get it downstairs so we can find out what's going on." Simon shifts uncomfortably, but nods. You squeeze Johnny's shoulder softly, before swabbing the spot on the inside of his elbow.

He blinks, eyes opening slowly, confused brow smoothing when he looks from his partner, over to you.

"There's our girl." He mumbles softly, and your face heats, eyes widening in surprise before you regulate your reaction. Simon coughs, loudly, and you shake your head with a nervous smile.

"Such a flirt, MacTavish." You tie him fast, fingers a little more clumsy than usual, off balance from hearing him say 'our girl', like you mean something to them. "I just need to get some blood and then I'll leave you in peace." He shrugs, but Simon grabs for his hand and squeezes it.

"Ah come on, Si." He slurs, but reaches to cup Simon's cheek over the mask, rubbing a thumb over the fabric.

"You're runnin’ a fever, Johnny."

"Ach. 's nothing." He brushes it off, but you watch how his eyes are slow to track Simon's movements. You casually glance at the monitor, noting his blood pressure.

"Could be." You assure him. "But can't be too sure, so we're going to check a few labs, alright?" He nods, sleepy, already falling back under, and you pull the needle, taping a small patch of gauze over the puncture in one fell swoop. “Alright. Let me run these down, and I’ll be back up to check on you in a bit.” You turn, stripping your gloves off into the trash.

“We’ll miss ye.” He whispers, and you roll your eyes playfully, even as your stomach clenches.

Simon’s eyes don’t leave you for a single second, not until the door is shut and you’re out of sight.

[worldlxvlys]

hey! so can u do like a short little story of Chris (he’s ur bf in the story!) and y/n has a attitude at a party and Chris teaches y/n a lesson in a smutty way and like use toys and vibrators on y/n and cuddles at the end? <3 IF U FEEL COMFORTABLE WRITING THIS STORY! <3 tysm!! 💓💓🫶🏻🫶🏻

Attitude

chris sturniolo x reader

warnings: nsfw (if that makes you uncomfy pls don’t read) p in v, oral (female receiving), squirting, overstimulation

now i know i told y’all i don’t write, idk why y’all thought i was joking 😃 i tried tho so… enjoy <333

“Yeah we’re not fucking doing this. You’ve had an attitude all night long and i’m fucking sick of it” Chris says.

Suddenly, he grabs my arm and starts towards the stairs.

“Chris, where are we going?” I ask, obviously annoyed.

“I’m teaching you a fucking lesson”. Chris says as I follow him up the stairs.

I have no clue whose room this is but Chris seems to know as he goes behind the door and goes to pick up a small pink bag. Once he retrieves the bag, he slams the door shut and locks it.

“I don’t know where this little attitude came from, but I’m fucking sick of it” he growls.

He then pushes me up against the door and starts trailing kisses down my neck. Then, at an alarming speed, he pushes his lips onto mine. The kiss was hungry and rushed as his hands roamed my body. He squeezes my ass, causing me to gasp and he took the opportunity to explore my mouth with his tongue.

Then, pulling away, he brought the the pink bag back into view.

“I got a little surprise for you baby” Chris said as he pulled out two vibrators, one pink and the other purple.

“Just bought these baby, heard they’re pretty powerful. Guess we’re gonna find out” he whispered into my ear as he reached for the bottom of my dress.

“This ok baby?” he asked, looking for any sense of discomfort in my eyes.

“Always.” I answered with a smile.

He then pushed me onto the bed and pulled my dress up to my waist. He switched on the purple vibrator, putting it on the highest setting.

“Put this on your tits, do not move it.” he said as he passed it to me.

“Take it off and you’re not fucking cumming.” he growled.

Doing as he said, I placed the vibrator on my left nipple.

“Holy fuck Chris” he was right, it was really powerful.

He then started kissing up my thighs, closer and closer to where I needed him.

“Please don’t tease Chris” I whined.

“Hm maybe I would listen to you if you hadn’t acted like a little brat tonight” he said as he continued to leave teasing kisses around my heat.

Then, finally, he licked a stripe up my core.

“Jesus Christ” I moaned out as my hips involuntarily bucked up.

He then pushed them down, and proceeded to move his tongue through my folds relentlessly. He kept eating me out like his life depended on it.

“ FUCKKK CHRIS” the only sounds that could be heard were the slurping of Chris’s mouth on my wet pussy, the gentle hum of the vibrator on my nipple, and his name repeated over and over on my lips.

“Mmm. Taste so fucking good ma” Chris moaned into me, causing me to stumble over the edge.

Chris finally lifted his head up, my juices coating his face.

“Did that feel good ma?”

“Fuck yes Chris” I replied.

Then without warning, he shoved his fingers inside of me.

“C-Chris I can’t. Too sensitive” was all I could get out.

“Hm well brats don’t get to decide how many times they come, do they?” he asked.

“Gonna stretch you out baby, you gonna take me well like a good girl?”

I was so focused on his fingers filling my hole up so well, I couldn’t even answer.

Slap.

Chris hit my clit with the palm of my hand, making my hips jolt.

“Fucking answer me”

“Holy fuck Chris! Yes yes i’ll take you so well, gonna be your good girl” with that, he lined his cock up with my glistening hole.

“You know your safe word?”

“Yes Chris”

Suddenly, he started pounding into me at an ungodly pace.

“ FUCK FUCK FUCK CHRIS OH MY GOD”

“That’s right baby, let me hear you”

At this point, I had forgotten about the vibrator that had somehow ended up falling out of my hand.

Suddenly spotting it, he picked it up and switched it on.

“I told you not to move it didn’t I, princess?”

I couldn’t even respond at this point, the only thing coming out of my mouth was his name in choked out moans. As if his relentless pace wasn’t enough, he suddenly placed the vibrator directly onto my clit, causing me to cry out.

“OH M- CHRIS I CAN’T I CAN’T”

“Yes you can baby, lay there and fucking take it”

The pleasure was so intense, I started to tear up. My eyes rolled into the back of my head as an unfamiliar feeling came over me.

“CHRIS I THINK I’M G-”

“Cum for me baby, give it to me. Want my cock to be fucking drenched in your cum”

I let go, juices spilling onto the sheets and Chris’s lower half as he spilled his seed inside of me. Riding us through our highs, Chris started to slow his pace.

As Chris pulled out, I winced and watched our juices spill out of me.

“Holy fucking shit Chris that was amazing” I sighed as I flipped onto my back.

“Yeah yeah, don’t do that shit again though” he chuckled as he kissed my forehead.

“Eh, we’ll see.”

🌀🌀🌀🌀

y’all that was my first time actually writing a fic wtf… maybe i should just stick to texts and snaps fr

i really went for it huh😭

idk if this is good so uh… lmk

k bye <333

masterlist

tag list: @lovingsturniolo @lustfulslxt @gwenlore @flowerxbunnie @sturnssx @mattslolita @its-jennarose @chrissturnioloswifey

[strwbmei]

Kinktober : BONUS LEVEL.

summary: in the midst of the crowded costume party; stelle needs you— and she needs you now.

contains: modern!au, college!au, female reader, mentioned alcohol usage, pet play sort of(?), stelle is referred to as a dog and she has a collar, transfem!stelle, stelle is taller, mentions of drugs, semi-public sex, creampie, power bottom reader, choking, unprotected sex, non-consensual creampie, stelle is a bit pathetic

pairing(s): pre-established stelle x reader

a/n: It's a bit late considering this was for Halloween, but this idea has been rotting in my brain for so long...

NSFW below the cut !

"Baby..." Stelle whined, looking down at you with those amber-hued puppy eyes she knew you couldn't possibly refuse. Not for long, at least. "Need you s'bad... Please?" The taller woman clung to your arm, tugging on your sleeve like a child who didn't get the toy they wanted.

After the two of you received an invitation to a quote-unquote, "small Halloween costume party" from a mutual acquaintance, you decided to go as the werewolf and little Red Riding Hood.

It was a great idea— the costumes worked well individually, but if someone saw both of you together, it'd be obvious that the two of you were a couple, though that was mostly because you were literally holding her on a leash that was attached to the collar her costume came with.

What wasn't a great idea, however, was going to the party in the first place. Within not even half an hour, the place reeked with the stench of vomit and cheap alcohol, and the second-rate Halloween decorations that were obviously only added as an afterthought were presumably torn off the walls by drunks.

Also, unlike the person who invited you two had said, the party was not small at all. The place was filled to the brim with couples and stoners; the only reason you two still stayed was because it'd be a waste to not use the costumes you already bought. They weren't really expensive, per se, but both of you were broke college students. You were going to make the most out of the $40 you spent on these costumes.

"Stelle, you can't just-" You inhaled, taking in a deep breath as you halt your words. "We're in public. I'm sorry, baby, but you can wait until we get home, hm?" You took her hands into your own, rubbing soothing circles on the back of her palm. The size difference was almost laughable.

Stelle heaved a dejected sigh, but you knew she hadn't given up quite yet. She was never one to be good with words— but she sure as hell was good at expressing her thoughts with her actions.

Which is probably why you can feel something hard and lengthy rubbing against your thigh as she wraps her arms protectively around your small frame. "Please. I'll make you feel so good, I promise..." She murmurs into your neck.

Well... it's not like you can just leave Stelle with a raging boner, right? Especially when you're what caused it in the first place. Right. You're just doing what any responsible girlfriend would do.

Though, you weren't aware that that included frantically unzipping her pants in god-knows-who's room as music blared from the cheap speakers downstairs.

"Wai- mmph..!" Stelle quickly put a hand over her mouth, stifling a moan as you hurriedly wrapped your lips around her cock. Though muffled, the sounds she made were more than audible.

Her eyes closed in ecstasy, her hands gripping your shoulders with a force that fluctuated between one of considerate eagerness and selfish desperation for her own pleasure— all telltale signs that she was going to cum soon, and you've grown all too familiar with them.

Though Stelle never could last long, the number of rounds she could go for was inhuman. Well, at least her ungodly amount of stamina is one thing about a werewolf that was even remotely similar to her.

As your head bobbed faster and faster in pace, her whimpers and moans grew louder and higher in pitch. With a strangled gasp, ropes of her warm semen flooded down your throat. Your mouth was pressed to her abdomen, swallowing every drop she had to offer.

"H-haah...~" The taller woman looked down at you with further aching need; cock still standing proud with a similar yearning. "Really, babe?" You sighed. A couple getting caught having sex in a party wasn't exactly a rare occurrence, and although normally people wouldn't care, it'd stain your pride.

Just as you were about to start jerking her off, she grabbed your hand by your wrist. "Wanna be inside you. Can I? I've been good..." She frowns; again, looking at you with those eyes.

First, she claimed that she'd make you feel good, only to settle for you sucking her off; second, does she really think she's been good? You wouldn't be in this situation if that were true in the first place. Liar.

However, you reckon you could give her a chance to prove herself...

Next thing you know, you're getting railed on the floor, barely able to keep yourself from falling over as Stelle rutted her hips into you. "W-wait, ah..!" You moaned. You didn't know what made Stelle so uncharacteristically... desperate, as if she were a dog in heat.

Maybe it was your costume? No, it looked good— but certainly not that good. And it wasn't revealing in the least, even the skirt was below knees length. Perhaps she was just too drunk? That's not it, either. Stelle has been drunk many times before and she's never acted like this.

Oh. The collar.

"Goddamit, Stelle...!" You huffed out in a hushed voice with all of the anger you could muster up. Everybody knows you can't ever stay mad at her, no matter what she does. Just like a cute puppy getting caught making a mess, Stelle only whines at your words; one hand over her mouth to muffle her sounds while the other kneaded at your breasts.

You pull her into a sloppy, hot kiss by her collar, the pace and strength of her thrusts unwavering. She whimpers into your mouth, swallowing all of your moans as she practically pounds you into the floor. Her cock was on the thicker side, rubbing perfectly against your walls while her tip kissed your cervix.

"Shit, so... tight...!" Stelle breaks out of your grip with little to no effort, hands needily grabbing and massaging at your tits. You tried to tell her to pull out, but you couldn't get any words out of your mouth through your moans. She mumbled a string of curses and apologies like a sinner begging for forgiveness. "Oh god, I'm gonna cum, gonna cum inside!"

With a choked moan, she held your hips down as you felt her warm cum fill you up. She lets out a sigh of pleasure as she pulls out of you, breathlessly pressing kisses on your inner thighs and apologizing. Though, seeing her cum leak out of you when she pressed down slightly on your stomach has her vigor returning tenfold...

Fuck it. She's cum inside of you already, what's the harm in two, maybe three more times? The night is young, after all.

╰┈➤ taglist ; @roninraccoon , @hedgehog666 , @dukemira , @yelanrambles , @the-night-owl-blr

[bigfatbimbo]

Sub!Valentino lives in my brain rent free and I’m ashamed to admit it…but I have so many thoughts-

He needs to be broken. Tie him up and make him watch as I break down that ego, that pathetic need for attention so that even after he’s still thinking of that moment. That even while he’s at work, doing something (or someone) else, he is craving his true dom, the only person who he’ll let break him into submission.

Sub!Valentino keeping a piece of your clothes because he needs to smell you near even when you’re not. He’s so fucking pathetic he needs to be humbled and get his walking privileges revoked after a night of punishments.

Sub!Valentino, in my mind, needs a dom who at first is so indifferent to him. So not impressed and not turned on by his typical flirty and slutty behavior. (Bonus points if it’s a bodyguard situation: someone who has no choice but to be around him daily and put up with his bullshit) And it pisses him off that this person isn’t falling for his game like everyone else would. And when he goes to do the same thing he always does when he gets mad (i.e. violent temper tantrum) doesn’t let him do it. They stand up for themselves and instead put him in his place and read him and degrade him to filth for the pathetic whore he truly is.

And a one time thing, (a one night stand, a moment of sexual tension, a lingering touch in a sensitive place) becomes his new obsession. And suddenly all his attention, his flirtation, his lack of boundaries, is being turned into this dom. In his mind hoping to gain a new plaything, unaware of how he was about to become the plaything and love every lewd moment of it.

-🍳 Anon

Sub Valentino x Reader Headcanons —

a/n — this is very messy, i’m having a huge writers block lowkey.

warnings — dom reader, sub valentino, actually valentino is his own warning, degradation, NOT PROOFREAD!!

summary — pretty self explanatory!

Usually I don’t answer long asks with full headcanons but i’m going to bounce off of these ideas in a really long way so… here you go!

I absolutely agree that Valentino would literally need to be dommed by an unbothered reader. 

Like someone who literally just doesn’t care about Val at all. They produce barley any reactions at all when Valentino gets all up in they’re business. 

Not even getting mad, just being so unapologetically uninterested in whatever Valentino was doing.

That would piss him off so much. Like an ungodly amount. After a failed attempt at flirting and pushing your boundaries, which you blow off, he gets insanely mad. 

Probably throws things, shouting curses at you, saying you’re not worth his time, or worth anything for that matter. 

And maybe that’s when you take charge (not to get all ‘in character’ on you but like… hopefully that’s when you take charge because you wouldn’t like what happens)

So you would push him down on the nearest surface, maybe letting some venom seep into your tone, and degrade him for being such an attention whore. 

He thinks he knows what’s about to happen so of course he plays into it an unbarable amount, but simply cut him off by wrapping your hand around his throat and telling him ‘whores speak when spoken too.’

Then he’s a little scared. He’s used that line, used that tone before. It’s no secret you planned on being particularly cruel. 

So that definitely starts a new routine, one that Valentino absolute looks forward too, craves intensely, even. 

Degradation is definitely huge for him. Like calling him your useless slut, and even demeaning him in such a specific real way.

Your insults are so bitter he knows you believe every word of them, even when you’re pegging him or stroking his dick so attentively.

He’s whining at your words, playing into them, wanting more, but as you get meaner, he can’t help but sniffle a little. 

Overstimulating him, and berating him with insults, for example. 

Like he doesn’t cry easily, but the painful sensation of the constant stimulation, paired with your absolutely cruel words brings tears to his eyes. 

And then you make fun of him ruthlessly for crying, “Aren’t you supposed to be experienced? And you’re crying already? Pathetic.”

He’s moaning and sobbing out curses in Spanish as you fuck into his ass, or ride his dick, or toy with him, and begging for more. 

I think praise with Valentino is an interesting subject because like… he’s literally never done anything to lead to any kind treatment.

But maybe you’ve been particularly cruel to him, well like always but more than usual, and so you give him the simple scrap “Good boy.”

It’s surprising how much he reacts. Obviously he hold himself very high in his mind, but you neveracknowledge how fantastic he is.

So when you do, even this shred of praise makes his dick twitch and whine escape his throat.

I like the idea of him being totally obsessed with his dom. Like even after sex he’s all over you, very touchy too.

Constantly trying to get your attention, running his fingers up and down your arm, making a total show of himself. Just for you.

[fallenangelkitten]

You Asked for This

Synopsis: In a cloud of possession, Henry fucks you to remind you who you belong to.

Warnings: possessive, restrains, angry sex, denial, masochism

Note: This one was SO fun to write. Enjoy ;)

He yanked his arm from your grasp, shooting a deadly glare at you. Your brow furrowed as you felt a tinge of pain hit your heart. “Henry! Wha-“

“Don’t give me that!” He yelled, eyes wide and full of anger. “You know exactly what you did. You just let him touch you.” His eyes shifted to the floor.

“H-Henry… are you serious? He’s my boss, I couldn’t just jerk my hand away like you so obviously can,” You tried to explain.

“I don’t give a fuck who he is. You are mine. So now it’s your turn. You let him touch you, you don’t get to touch me,” his eyes were heated with fury, but his lips held a sinister smirk. You couldn’t help but feel the arousal pool in your underwear; his jealousy and anger only in turn heating your eyes with lust. You tried to squeeze your legs together to give yourself some sort of relief from your quickly consuming need.

“I’m sorry. I’m really really sorry. But I need you and I know you need me, too,” you went to hold his hand but he snatched it back. You searched his eyes for any sense of change but found none. “Please, Henry.”

He said nothing. He would only look down at you, chest heaving and nostrils flared. “Henry?” You asked, but still nothing. Only a slight raise of his brow, as if an unspoken challenge. “Seriously?”

His mouth set into a hard line. He finally broke his gaze and shifted to turn from you, but you caught his wrist. His reaction was ungodly fast, breaking your connection and snatching yours into his hand. He pulled you to where you were only a few centimeters from his face. “You want my touch? My hands on you? Fine. Your wish is my command, Darling,” he snarled. The name he used for you coming off of his tongue like a curse.

He dragged you into the bedroom. “Undress and stand next to the bed, don’t move,” he commanded. Your mouth began to water in anticipation. You did just as he asked as he left the room. He returned to you with a shiny pair of cuffs. Licking your lips, you held your hands out to him. He latched one around your wrist, the click of the clasp echoing in your ears. He guided your hands above your head, leading you to one of the bars overtop the middle of your four poster bed.

You were almost dangling from the middle of the bed, knees just barely taking the pressure off of your wrists. He made his way under you. He was completely naked- your eyes took him in, his length slapping against his stomach as he scooted between your thighs. You were panting, your lust beginning to seep down your thighs and onto his hips.

His head tilted to one side, “I haven’t even touched you and you’re a mess. Look at you. You think I’m going to fuck you? Brats don’t get rewarded, (y/n),” without warning he plunged into you with resounding force, he hit the deepest part of you and stayed there. “We’re going to stay like this for as long as I see fit. You’re going to dangle there, with my cock stuffed into you, while you try and remember who you belong to.”

You whimpered above him, mouth hung open. You couldn’t move your hips if you wanted to; not only did he have you at a height to where you couldn’t gain any traction, but his hands grounded your hips to his own. You could feel him pulsing inside of you, only making you groan. You were aching, cunt throbbing and gripping around him. You heard the deep growl he attempted to hold back emerge from his chest. “Henry, please!” You begged.

He only hardened the grip on your hips with one hand, bring the other up to your breasts. He flicked one of them, pain shooting through you causing you to cry out. He clasped the other between his thumb and index finger, pinching slightly- just enough to be more painful than pleasurable. He rocked his hips once, even the smallest amount of friction was now overstimulating.

You were shaking above him, already on the brink of release. He kept you constricted against him as he move his hand from your breast to your mouth. “Suck,” he commanded, holding out his index. Without hesitation, you took him into your mouth, hoping- praying, he would take pity on you. You sucked his finger as if it were his throbbing cock; tongue swirling around and lapping at the tip. You almost wished it were his cock, the feeling of him so deep and unmoving was driving you mad.

With his finger acting as a gag, he rocked his hips against yours a second time. But twice was all it took- you came furiously, back arched and head falling back. He pulled his finger from your mouth and rubbed slow circles against one of your nibbles. You could feel your own spit against it, the air making it cold.

Your senses still hadn’t came back to you as he sat to reach above you and undo one the the cuffs. You collapsed against his chest, your hair sticking to it from the mixture of your sweat. He was still pulsing inside of you as he brought his hand under your chin, forcing you to look at him. “Now. Who do you belong to?”

“You, Henry. I’m yours.”

[adventuringblind]

Breaking Point

LandOscar x Reader

Genre: angst

Summary: the tragedy and revival of Lando Norris and Max's sister as told by mostly Lestappen

Warning: sexual and physical abuse. Panic attacks, hospitals, injury descriptions

Notes: I'm sorry to the Carlos girlies for my crimes. T_T he was just a good villain for this story, and I feel so bad about it because he's wickedly out of character.

Masterlist

When Max thought about his sister dating a driver, he thought that meant one. No, instead she's dragging Max to talk to her partners. Plural. Meaning: more then one.

It's not that he doesn't like it. It's just a little shocking, is all. He figured her and Lando would get together eventually since they were similar in age. He didn't know that Carlos was also in the picture.

But Carlos is good guy, loyal, a provider like Max himself.

Plus Carlos is Charles' teammate and they get long. Charles tells him all the time that they have a fun working relationship. The same Charles who is ready to murder Jos.

The Monegasque and him had gotten together in 2020 right after they came back from lockdown. They moat certainly did not follow protocols.

Charles has just dragged Max and his sister into the Leclerc family. A place that they feel welcomed and safe.

Needless to say that Charles adopted the protective older brother role over Max's sister. So when he starts noticing things happening around the garage with Carlos, he's immediately on the hunt for what's happening.

The first sign something has gone wrong is halfway through 2021, about six months into the relationship between Max's sister and her two partners. Living in an abusive household has give all the Verstappen children a unique was of sensing when somethings not right. And right now, it's written all over his sisters face as her and Lando are sitting in Max's driver room.

"How come you're here and not with Carlos?" He asked. They shared a wary glance and shrugged.

"Wanted to see you for a while." Was the excuse.

Charles is the next to notice something. A month after the first incident, he runs into the trio arguing around the side of the Ferrari garage. He listens for a while despite him knowing it's wrong, but he can't help it.

"Both of you are idiots! Am I the only one who cares about us?"

"No! It's just-"

"Shut up and leave me. I'll see you both tonight. Be ready for me."

Charles only peaks out from his hiding space after Carlos leaves. He can see the two shaking and reassuring each other.

But arguments happen all the time, right?

Charles and Max keep a closer eye on them after that. Both the younger seem to be isolating themselves and neither if the older is happy with that.

The next incident is one the should've never happened. Max regrets not seeing it sooner. Charles blames himself for nit seeing the signs.

Their off week in Monaco is an enjoyable one. Charles and Max had gone out to a club with his sister and her partners. They were to wrapped up in each other to really pay attention to what else was happening.

Max's phone rings at an ungodly hour. He looks at the caller ID and something twists inside of him.

"Lando? Everythi-"

"Apartment. Need you please."

Lando sounds winded on the other line and panicked. Then the call ends and Max is left in silence.

He thanks the adrenaline for being able to get Charles awake and into the car. It's a painfully slow drive.

The pair gets through the front desk easily and take the stairs two at a time. They stop at the door and Max tries to listen for anything.

Nothing. Silence. An eery quite that is unatraul for the trio.

Max bangs his fist on the door. There is movment from the otherside as a latch is undone.

Carlos stands blocking the door. "Max?"

"Hey, Lando called and said-"

"Lando called?"

Charles and Max share a look. The spainard doesn't seem right. He's out of breath, his clothes are messed up, and his eyes are rapidly scanning around the area behind them.

"Can we come in? Is he okay?" Charles asks, but receives no response. Max takes matters into his own hands. The little patience he has finally vanishing as he pushes past Carlos.

Max starts searching for his sister and the Brit while Charles confines a frantic Carlos to the kitchen. The apartment is wrecked. There is broken class on the floor of the bathroom.

He stops when he gets to the bedroom. The scene before him sends his stomach up his throat. Lando is frantically trying get his sister into clothes. She's unconscious and Lando is wrecked.

"Max!"

The Dutch jumps into action and attempts to asses the situation. It looks like they were probably having sex (as much as he hates to think about it). How had it gone so wrong?

"What do you need?" He'll ask what happened after they get situated.

"She's unconscious and hasn't woken up yet and I don't know what to do." He says it in one breath. Max registers how small he sounds and the tears on the Brits cheeks.

"How did it happen?"

Max tries to remain calm, but it's getting increasingly difficult to do so as Lando is shaking his head no and continues trying to hoist the girl into his arms, but his body isn't cooperating.

Max does it for him and bundles his sister into his arms. Lando nearly falls over just walking and Max has to call Charles for help.

"Lando- I didn't mean to-"

"Stay away, Carlos. You say that everytime but you never mean it."

A pang of guilty realization hits Max. Carlos had done this? But why? What was he trying to acheive?

The Spainard doesn't follow as they leave the building. He doesn't even try to stop them.

They end up in the emergency room. Lando had failed to mention he is also hurt and now is getting stitches down his back and a brace for his knee. Charles stays with Lando while Max sits with his sister. She's awake but unable to use her vocal chords for the next month at least.

Max is taken off guard when she starts frantically crying for Lando. He does his best at soothing her like his mom and Victoria used to do.

It's hours later when they finally get to leave. Charles sets them up in the guest room of the flat then comes and joins Max on the couch in the living area.

"I don't understand what happened in the slightest." Charles tosses his legs over Max's lap.

"I do. I saw what the room looked like. My sister was unconscious and tied to the headboard." Max chokes on the last part. As if growing up with Jos wasn't painful enough. He'd take her with him even before she was an adult. They worked so hard to heal from the horrors of that house.

"Sexual and physical then? Do you think they will tell the FIA? It could get Carlos dismissed from the sport."

Max shakes his head. There are so few people who even know about their upbringing still. Sure, most have an idea, but that doesn't give any details to how bad it had been.

"One day at a time."

~~~~~

Lando is very keen on not letting her get out of bed the next day despite her best efforts. She takes to yelling at him through text to speech to at least sit up so they can process the events.

They don't get that luxury as Max and Charles are dragging them out of bed for breakfast. It looks worse then it really is, in her head. She's dealt with worse. She could handle Carlos and his anger. One which technically hadn't been her fault but she'd rather it be her then Lando who had originally taken the brunt.

They finish eating in silence. She knows Max is going to get his answer eventually, so she nods at Lando to get him to explain. No point in drawing it out.

"Thank you for coming to get us last night." The Brit starts. His hands now becoming the most intresting thing.

"Are you going to tell us what happened?"

"Things were going well for a while. It was nice and we were all happy and in love and Carlos was sweet and caring."

"But?"

"But I'm not the most well behaved person..." There is a red tint on Lando's cheeks. "Carlos had been struggling with Ferrari and needed a reprieve, and we became that for him. It was consensual and stuff, but then it felt distant. He was doing things we hadn't agreed upon and getting progressively angrier. It became something neither of us looked forward to anymore."

She catches the two older boys' looks. Max is furious and Charles looks betrayed, in a way.

"He um-" Lando breaks. His breathing is more labored then before. The female takes his hand in her own and runs her free one down his spine. "-It escalated when he finally lost patience with me. It was really bad. I've never been so scared in my life. I safeworded out but he didn't listen. Then it kept happening. Max- your sister became your stand in."

Well she was hoping he wouldn't tell Max that part. He didn't need to know the details of what Carlos did.

"We tried to ask for help a few times. Jon walked into my room amd saw us frantically covering bruises. Then Carlos got more mad and more possessive."

"The argument outside of Ferrari. Carlos said he didn't want you guys to be exposed. I thought he meant the relationship." Charles' eyes cloud with guilt. The realization hits him harder then he'd like.

"Yesterday when we went out, I knew it was going to be hard. Carlos had been frustrated more often with Max and his own team so she'd gotten the brunt of the hits for the last month. Then this guy tried a move and it was a downward spiral from there." Lando trails off the story with a shrug and reassuring squeeze to her hand.

"What made you call?" Max is very clearly trying to restrain himself.

"He had a look to him like he wasn't even present. I went to get something for him and then called you. She was already unconscious at that point and Carlos was freaking out so he stared throwing things which is how I got the cut on my back."

Max determines that they will be staying with him until further notice. He tells the staff at the front desk to not let Carlos up. They also end up having to block his number due to the sheer number of texts and missed calls.

Daniel ends up finding out because Carlos won't leave the McLaren space alone. The Austrailian becomes more like a guard dog armed with a friendly smile.

Her and Lando already had a strong bond, but sharing such an experience certainly pulls them closer together.

Things get better one pain stakingly day at a time. Aside from their polar opposite responses. Max says he's getting whiplash from it and Daniel says a few times Zak might have a stroke if Lando keeps up like he is.

Lando had become oddly defiant. He already was in certain ways, but now it's just leaking over into his everyday life. Like setting a oundary wasn't enough, being a brat in the bedroom isn't enough, simply saying no isn't an option. Lando is blatantly defiant and struggles to take any kind d of direction.

Versus his female counterpart who is much quieter. She does anything that anybody asks her to do. She rolls over for them. Because it's better to do that then make it worse for herself. A thing she learned from living with Jos.

Where Lando goes looking for attention, she is avoiding it at all costs. Nobody is sure anymore of how to help them and therapy is a slow process.

Charles reminds Max daily. "One step at a time."

~~~~~

Oscar wasn't sure about his rookie season. His entrance into the sport was not the best and he's received so much backlash that he's prepared for copious amounts if hate.

Lando is friendly with him. Certainly doesn't let himself get close, but he's there for emotional support and advice.

They warm up to eachother eventually. Lando even introduces his girlfriend to him and it feels like he's been succesful in creating some kind of trust between them. Not in a 'your my favorite person' kind of way, but a budding friendship at least.

Oscar, who is just trying to get through his rookie season, manages to screw it all up. How, You may ask, did he do this? Simple, he broke the number one rule of falling for his teammate and his girlfriend. They were not supposed to do this to him! How is he supposed to move forward normally when all he wants to do is join their cuddling session in Lando's room?! All they do is comment him and cheer him up and it does something to his brain that he doesn't like.

Well - he does like it and to much at that.

He'd been in enough relashonships over his life to pick out certain things. Namely, who is typically the more do.inate one. Whether that be life decisions or in the bedroom, it really doesn't matter, but Oscar can clearly see neither of them are.

This leaves Oscar with two options. He can leave them alone and pune in silence, or he can ask Max his opinion because the Dutch driver is honest. He chooses the Latter.

Oscar knocks on the door of the room and hears some shuffling. It swings open and it's obvious Max wasn't expecting him. Chest exposed for anyone walking by to see.

"Oscar? If this is about Lando and my sister then you can come in. Otherwise, leave me alone."

"The first one."

Max steps aside and let's Oscar in. He's met with a sprawled out Charles on the bed who is also only in sweats.

"Oscar?"

"Charles?"

"He's here about the children."

"Oh good! Please end my suffering."

Oscar drags out a chair and sits down. His mind is running every possibility of what this means. "How do I end your suffering?"

Max looks him dead in the eye. "They won't shut up about you and I'm tired of them waking me up everytime there is a decision to be made. They need reassuring for everything even if they agree. And I love my sister, but I also love to sleep."

"They talk about me?"

Charles groans in annoyance. "Non stop, mate. It never ends. Oscar this and Oscar that." He mocks.

"But before you do anything you should know that they've been through some shit together. If you hurt them after they've done so much to heal, I will not hesitate to send you into the barrier."

He thanks Max for the... encouragement? Threat? Both? And then leaves. He goes straight for Lando's room at the Hilton next.

He knocks and again gets met with a sleepy Lando. Cmust be something about tonight specifically because Lando only sleep at inconvenient times.

"Oscar! Everything alright? You look like you've run a mile or somwthing."

Oscar fumbles. He forgot how hard feeling can be. Lando let's him in and he almost just breaks. Both of them were probably all comfortable in bed before he ruined it.

"Osc? Seriously mate? If something is wrong you can tell us."

Fuck it, he's already come this far. Might as well throw all caution to the wind.

He smashes his lips down onto Lando's and pulls off. He's going to get addicted if he doesn't pull back now.

There is no response. A shared look between the two and then a smirk from the Brit which throws Oscar off entirely.

"So you think you can handle me then?"

~~~~~

Lando is very please with the way things have turned out. The duo is back to a trio with Oscar now involved.

It's a different dynamic then it was with Carlos. The Austrailian is more gentle then the Spainard ever was.

They haven't told Oscar all of the details yet. Just that he should be wary of Carlos because he can go overboard and get possessive despite them not dating anymore. Lando won't admit it to himself that sometimes he worries Carlos will actually try something that will have long term consequences.

Oscar, for what it's worth, has fended off Carlos on and off track. He's also more perceptive then Lando had initially though. Or he's just really bad at hiding his emotions. He picks up and where not to touch, things that trigger the two, their reactions to certain events. Oscar doesn't pry, but Lando knows he's catching on.

The hardest part to work through had been the sexual aspect. Talking about it only does so much after a certain point. Prior to Oscar, they'd slowly started to do things. They'd done a few joint counseling sessions that helped them talk through a plan and set some boundaries.

The Australian doesn't push to do anything. But finally, they get to a point where they can talk about it with him. The pair is certainly nervous, but he respects them, asks questions, and clarifies his own boundaries. It's such a drastic turn around from what they had before.

Oscar's patience doesn't waiver, and as they build up confidence, he also gets a but more bold. It just - it works. Lando isn't sure exactly to describe it other then he feels safe, loved, and wanted at all times of the day and it's not just from one half of his partners.

Eventually Lando is able to slip back into the, much more defiant, version of himself. It's fun seeing just how long it takes Oscar to break.

The answer: he doesn't.

That much is made apparent when the trio, Max, and Charles go out for dinner and Lando decideds to test the limits.

Admittedly, he probably went to far. But in his defense Oscar was obviously not giving him any attention. He wasn't meaning to do what he did, it was an accident, and he apologized immediately, but Oscar never wavered. Barely batted an eye at him.

He left Lando with a smirk and a 'We'll sort this later.' They did and Lando was sore the next morning.

They fall into a rhythm. Pre-race kisses and post race cuddles.

Then Carlos shows up again.

~~~~~

She could tell by the radio that Oscar was disappointed with his race. His car had taken damage from Carlos and he'd lost position because of it.

He'd been keeping it off track until recently. Now he's getting more aggressive and frankly, it scares her.

Her and Lando are wary as they walk into his room in the McLaren hospitality. They enter without knocking but Oscar is laying on the ground with his arms open.

"I need a hug."

They oblige and fall onto the floor with him.

"Is it bad that I-"

"If you really need it then we can." She giggles, stopping him before he can get in his head to much.

"How'd you know?!"

"Mate, you're laying on the floor and these suits don't hide everything."

It's so different compared to Carlos. Oscar checks in every few minutes. Reminds them they can say no at any point. It's almost therapeutic, in a way.

They are all very naked and vulnerable at the moment. Which is horrible considering the door isn't locked. Which would normally be fine since it's a rule to knock before entering. In this case, however. It's awful because Carlos has just opened the door wide open.

She freezes; suddenly aware of every sound and feeling around her. Lando manhandles her body behind him and pulls something, a small throw blanket, to cover them. She feels guilty for not giving it to Oscar and leaving him to fend for himself.

Lando's breathing is labored. Her throat hurts from the last encounter they had. The memory burned into her. Her voice strains thinking about it as tears well in her eyes.

"You really couldn't knock? You just had towalk in on us to, as if you hadn't done enough already?"

"Glad to see nothings changed. They're still whores and eventually going to play you."

"Haven't done it yet mate. Personally, I think they are very loyal."

Oscar stand and puts his clothes back on. Almost like Carlos isn't even there.

"Also, for the record, if somebody looks at you with the fear they are, you've fucked up badly. Now if you'll excuse me I have two lovers I need to comfort."

Oscar slams the door on Carlos. Then he pulls clothes back onto both of them. More specifically, his clothes.

"Alright, I didn't want to ask before and figured you'd tell me what Carlos did on your own time. We are officially out of time. I promise to sit here and listen and you can take as much time as you need."

And they broke. Huddled all together and spilling every detail of what drove them this far. Oscar listened intently, validated feelings, and didn't judge. He tensed every occasionally at hearing what Carlos did, but aside from that, he tries not to show his anger.

"I'm going to make a call, alright?"

~~~~~

Max is angry. He's seeing Red and it's not just because Charles is two steps in front of him In a Ferrari shirt.

No, he's upset because Oscar called him and said his sister is crying. The Austrailian is going to have a fist to the face when he sees him. Which isn't long because they are outside of the hospitality building.

Max gets a grip of Oscar's shoulders and starts ranting. He's not even aware of half the stuff he's saying. He doesn't snap out of it until he feels Charles tap his shoulder and tell him his sister has been talking to him for the last few minutes.

Max is about to apoligize for misreading the situation. Then Carlos comes into Oscar's line of sight and the Dutch realizes that even he has a breaking point. A snapping point, more like.

Max is instantly grateful he's gripping Oscar's because the Australian is fighting to get a hold of Carlos. The Spainard is spewing vile thing directed at his sister and Lando.

It becomes a fight between Oscar trying to escape while Max and Charles keep him from doing something he can't take back.

"Oscar!" The pair comes to eye level with him. "He's not worth risking your career." He seems to come to his senses and relaxs. Max and Charles both ease away tentatively.

And Max regrets it instantly as Oscar walks right up to him, but lays not a finger on Carlos.

"Honestly Carlos, was it not enough to break them sexually? Physically? You also feel the need to humiliate them? How would the paddock feel if they knew what you truly are?" It's said just loud enough to elicit a few whispers.

Max and his Monegasque partner (who is also mad at Carlos still) bring the trio to their room and make sure they are okay. He hates leaving his sister like this, but he can rest easy knowing she's in good hands.

"Hey Max?"

"Yeah Charlie?"

"I guess it's the people who are the most patient who snap the hardest, huh?"

And Max couldn't have said it better himself. Maybe it's a good thing he's not patient...

[tan1shere]

Fuck me like you're mad at me baby

Ellie Williams x fem reader

A/n: I feel like I base alot of these off of songs but it gets me motivated a lil. ALSO think I'm the first person to write about Resident Evil Ellie mod. So you're very welcome for that. Honestly upsets me that no one has written about this version 😔 but I am here to supply ���� enjoy you whores <3

Masterlist

Summary: Ellie works down the road in an office for most of the day. Someone was really pissing her off today so she comes home and fucks the shit out of you.

Warnings: Dom Ellie, rough, strap usage, gloves ;) you'll see. Language, just pure rotten smut ! .... fisting .... 👀 with that being said minors DO NOT interact. You had your warning !!!! Use of mommy. I feel like it suits this and she hardly gets called it. I'd so moan it out I just know she'd bust. Lillll bit of fluff at the end ofc <3

You heard the door open from in your shared bedroom. Most likely your girlfriend home from work. Ellie would work almost all day, sometimes it'd take a toll on her, especially some of her co workers pestering her alot of the time. "Hi baby!" You call out. She comes in, in her usual attire. Long black pants, black fitted shiny leather gloves, with a white shirt, black tie and suspenders. She looks mad. "Ellie?" You inquire.

"Strip. I've had a day." You clench your thighs together at her tone. Finding her more hot as she says that. You nonetheless obey, getting rid of all your clothes discarding them to the side. She was currently attaching the harness, her keeping her clothes on. All the ones you had listed before. That makes you extremely heated at the thought of her fucking you like that. You get down on your knees infront of her, looking up through your lashes. "Fuck. What a good girl." That makes you go insane. You ponder if you should be good or a brat, weighing out your options.

"Suck it, baby." You get pulled out of your thoughts, looking at it and immediately putting your lips around it, kinda wanting to behave. Adoring to be called such things, you start to gently suck it, getting all of your spit around it. Knowing you won't need it though with how wet she makes you. She grunts at the sight of you, you looking up with slightly tired eyes, it honestly makes her crazy. The fact she can come home. Fuck the shit out of her beautiful girl.

"Get on the bed baby. Ass up." You nod, pulling your mouth off her strap. Getting on the bed in the position she told you to get in. She stands at the edge of the bed, groping your ass. Feeling the cold leather of her gloves. "Fuck I missed you today." She says as she lines up. "Missed this fucking pussy. This ass." She slaps it, making you jolt forward slightly with a moan. She holds your hips in place, just admiring your body for a second before she slams into you, rutting against you. Hard. You let out a shaky whimper. "My perfect slut. Being so good for me. Letting me use her when I'm angry. Such a good fucking girl huh?" She squeezes your ass as she fucks you at a relentless pace. "F-fuck.." You let out, feeling amazing.

"God, this pussy is mine. All mine." Another slam into your tight hole. Making you scream out in pleasure. "Fuck. Need to look at you baby." She turns you around while she's still in you, making you swivel on her strap. Still fucking you at an ungodly pace. Making your eyes roll back. "Ellie.. f-fuck.. mommy.." She smirks, part of her blonde hair sticking to her forehead with sweat. "Oh fuck, you're so good for me aren't you. My good fucking girl, all pretty and stretched out for me. Love this stretched pussy. Although.." this gives her an evil idea. Wanting to see it stretched even more. It was honestly her favorite thing.

"Just gunna try something. Fuck I need it so badly." She says pulling out completely. "I know you can take it for me baby I know you can." You're a bit confused but you let out a loud moan as you feel her fingers touch you. "Gunna stretch you out big time with this one. Gunna make you my bitch for this new feeling." She starts off with 2 fingers. Normal. Slowly adding a third. She then sticks her pinky in stretching you out completely. "E-ellie-" You open your mouth at this new profound feeling. But enjoying it with every fiber of your body. You inch your hips into her hand wanting more. If anything this sends her off the edge. She's so glad you're enjoying this. And you're gunna get exactly what you want.

She begins sticking her whole hand in you making you stretch like crazy. Moan like a pornstar. You felt like you were on cloud 9. Heaven. Why hadn't she done this sooner. You relished in this so much it's making her want to cum. But not before you. She starts to move her hand in you, still keeping it as the fist shape. Occasionally stretching her fingers out to hit spots deep in you. You were coming closer by the second. "That's it. Fuck, cum all over my glove. Never gunna wash this. Gunna remind me of how filthy this was. How fucking beautiful my little toy is." You scream out, cumming right when she said that. She smirks. "Fuckk." She breathes. Letting go into her boxers. "You drive me crazy baby."

She slowly takes her hand out making sure it doesn't hurt too much. Carefully taking her gloves off as she usually does when she comes home. "I'm sorry angel did I hurt you?" You gently laugh at her. "No Els I promise, it felt amazing." She sets the glove down in her bedside table. (This woman was not kidding) She then looks at you. "Really? Well that's good to know for future." You smile at her as she takes the most uncomfortable things off, again. Like she usually does when she comes home. Once done, she gets into bed with you, hugging your form. "I love you angel." She holds you close. "I love you, Els."

A/n: another note, I promise I'm working on slumber party! Have this in the mean time but I want it to be special and not rushed so please bare with me it will come! {Just like ik you lovely ladies will do once you read it ;)} anywaysss. Hehe. Requests are definitely still open if you want to request some headcannons I'm sure I can! Haven't done them yet but I will! Or just silly lil blurbs not really full on stories like this. I do have a pregnant blurb I doodled, when I was bored so I could post that. Anyways won't make this long. Have a good day or night MUAH <3