#and dangling it from her belt loop

[mystellenia]

dom!abby losing control୨ৎ

summary: abby's composed and rough facade is destroyed by an unexpected and embarrassing orgasm.

content: answer to this req!! dom!abby, kinda mean! abby, sub!reader, make out, fingering (r!receiving), teasing, humiliation if you squint and shake the phone, strap on sex (muehehehhehe) (r!receiving), overstim (a!receiving), abby being rough with reader, degrading (r!receiving)

notes: havent posted in almost 2 months 😍 school is whooping my ass and midterms are coming up so basically i’ll be killing myself soon. enjoy this to feed on for the next x weeks until i post again

(wc 1.8k)

abby's rough hands grip onto the backs of your thighs and lift you up, dropping you harshly on the kitchen counter as she cups the back of your neck to pull you back in for a kiss. you throw your arms around her neck, and your fingers make quick work of undoing the golden braid falling down the length of her back, scratching her scalp and making her groan. 

you grab her hair in fistfuls and pull on them to expose her neck, abby hissing at the twisted pleasure prickling across her scalp. her throat bobs with a thick swallow while you coat the skin of her neck with sloppy kisses, her hips hungrily grinding up into yours.  

"jesus, baby... fuck." abby's hands grab the hem of your loose t-shirt to lift it over your head, your braless tits exposed and nipples hardening at the sharp chill of the air. her swollen lips latch onto the side of your neck and make you dizzy, and you swiftly undo her belt buckle and pull it out of her jeans' belt loops. just when you unbutton them and grab onto the zipper to unzip it, her thick, rough palm closes around your throat, and you choke on your saliva at the startle. 

"you're being especially whorish today. slow down—you're not the one in control here." her thumb and first two fingers squeeze on the sides of your throat and restrict the blood flow to your head, making it feel heavy on your shoulders and your vision deliciously fog up.  

she slowly releases her iron grip on your throat and slides her hand down to your chest, her left hand tweaking and palming at your nipple. with her other hand, slow and deliberately teasing, she unties the drawstring of your pajama pants and pulls one leg out of them, spreading your legs wide to make room for her muscular body to fit in between them.  

you're left with only underwear on, your thin pajama pants floppily dangling from your foot from behind abby's back. abby roughly shoves her hand into your underwear and cups you, feeling your thrumming clit on her palm and the small wet spot on your underwear on her knuckles. 

breathing into your ear, she mumbles, "be good for me and don't fucking move, 'kay?" she then harshly thrusts her middle finger into your pussy, its soft walls quickly morphing to make room for the intrusion. you cry out and throw your head back into the kitchen cabinet, softly wincing at the impact.  

she presses inside you on that smooth spot at exactly the depth of her finger, almost as if she was the only one meant to find it, and your eyes water the way they always do when she massages inside you. her now swollen lips scatter bruises and marks along the side of your neck in a line, breadcrumbs to remind you in the morning of the skilled way she undoes your composure so easily.  

"i'll never get enough of the way your skin tastes," she purrs into your shoulder, and you pathetically whine in response, her brazen praises flustering you beyond words. she tries, and fails, to ignore the needy throbbing of her neglected clit underneath the seam of her pants, the slightest movement pressing the seam up against it and making her clench. 

golden waves cascade down her face and frame her strong cheekbones, hiding the way her eyes stayed high up in the back of her head at the smell of your skin. your fingers tightly thread through her hair, your grip tightening as you periodically let out little mewls into the shell of her ear.  

she trades the massaging of your g-spot for slow, but deep thrusts into your pussy, adding her index finger without warning and making your back bow. 

"oh, my go- my- abby," you pant out, unable to get more than three words out at a time before her careless ruining of your weeping cunt sucks the air out of you. you start babbling how she shouldn't stop, a telltale sign that your climax was approaching. 

your hand shoots to the wrist pumping her fingers into your pussy, your fingers wrapping around it in a vice-like grip to try and slow her movements down in overstimulation. her free hand snaps to your jaw and squeezes your cheeks together, condescendingly shaking your head side to side. 

"why you grabbing my wrist, baby? you want me to stop? yeah?" her voice raises in pitch to mock your whining. "you wanted this so fucking bad, so take it, slut." 

she throws your head back against the cabinet and shakes her wrist of your hand, beginning to jackhammer her fingers into your abused hole at a murderous pace. in the corner of your nearly closed eyes, you see your pajama pants fall from your foot to the floor. your whining and whimpering quickly fills the room, all the while abby watches every change in your face with a close eye.  

you cum with a yelp, both hands flying to her own to stop her brutal assault while you dumbly stare into her eyes slack jawed with your brows tightly twisted in ecstasy. abby removes her fingers from inside you and immediately pulls your face to hers, teeth clashing in a lewdly sloppy kiss.  

planting her hands underneath your thighs, she effortlessly hoists you up and carries you down the hall to your shared bedroom, all without disconnecting your lips once. upon entering, she throws you down onto the bed and swiftly pulls her henley over her head, her small boobs clad in a simple, grey bra. 

"go get me my cock, baby. the black one." her pants were already unbuttoned from your earlier rushed undressing, but the zipper still remained untouched. her thick fingers pinch the silver and slowly slide it down, and you quite literally salivate at the sight.  

pushing down a thick swallow, your body turns towards the closet to get abby's strap. your head closely follows after tearing your sticky gaze from her now exposed v-line, little tufts of light brown hair leading to her core in a teasing, almost coaxing way. upon entering the closet, you bend down to the dark blue box in the corner of the small room, and your nipples brush your knee, suddenly making you aware that she so effortlessly ordered you to get her strap, and you so pliably listened, almost fully naked, at that. you might as well have crawled to the closet on all fours with how you mindlessly obeyed her like a dog does its owner. 

shaking your mild embarrassment, you palm the long, dark strap and pivot back around to return to abby. she stands tall and sturdy—unmoving like a tree—watching your naked figure make its way back to her. 

"take your underwear off for me," she says under her breath, her breathing made heavy by hunger. 

you perch on the edge of the bed and scoot back, pulling your underwear down your legs and kicking it off to some spot on the floor. abby pushes her jeans and boxers over her ass just enough for the base of the strap to sit snugly against her pounding clit once she steps into the harness, the contact enough to make her sharply wince. 

grabbing you by the ankles, she roughly pulls you to the edge of the bed and lifts your feet up near each side of her head, rubbing her warm palms up and down your legs. simultaneously, her hips push forward and slide the length of the strap along your pussy, the toy gliding against your skin with ease thanks to the obscene amount of cum that coated your lips from your orgasm. 

"please... just... just put it in," you whisper, tired of the teasing. 

"i will. just wait a little—be patient." she gently lowers your legs to wrap around her hips and lock behind her back. then, she pauses before adding, "do you know how to do that when you're acting like such a slut?" like she'd caught herself being too nice and had to balance it out. 

all you can do is whine in response and hope to feel the delicious sting of her pushing the tip in soon. her hips rock back and forth one, two, three times while she intently watches, entranced by the way your pussy clenches every time the tip of her cock passes over your clit. 

her hips sharply jerk back, and she incoherently mutters a string of words under her breath. ending her cruel teasing, she swipes her hand down your swollen cunt to gather your cum and coats the tip of the strap with it. lining it up with your twitching hole, she sinks into you and smirks at your jaw dropping ever lower in pleasure. 

she starts her thrusts in a rather swift cadence, luring sweet cries out from your throat, suppressed grunts coming from her own. 

"fuck, i've been thinking about this all day. you don't even know, baby." her speech comes out fast and strained as she tries to speak before her groans and grunts interrupt the words. "i could live in this pussy, and it would welcome me with tears running down your legs." 

"yes," you pant out, the one word your dumbified brain can remember. 

very quickly, though, abby's thrusts get random and sloppy. shrill, high-pitched squeaks spill from her lips, a striking contrast to her formerly composed grunts and dirty words. she abruptly pulls out, and her hands frantically dart to her hips to push the base of the strap off her engorged clit, her lower stomach hurting from overstimulation. 

with the harness shoved down to her mid-thigh, she sat on the edge of the bed partially turned away, muttering a quiet shit to herself. you gawk at her with scared, wide eyes, terrified that something had gone wrong or hurt her. you see her eyelids flutter as she turned away in what seemed like embarrassment. her chest was madly rising and falling, too, from her attempts to catch her breath, and you scoff in both disbelief and twisted arousal. 

"baby," you call out, placing your hand on her bicep. "did you just cum?" 

she's quiet for a long while before shoving her face into her hands to hide her humiliation. "god, i didn't mean to." 

you can't help but let out a little giggle, and she falls back onto the bed, throwing her arm over her eyes. "it's not funny!" 

"it kinda is," you tease, but your laughter dies in your throat when you see a small wet patch on her pants where the base of the strap touched the fabric. 

you lick your lips, letting your eyes drop to her bra and thinking of the skin it so cruelly hid. 

"it was really hot, too." 

@abbysbug @abbys-gay @abbysunderwear @moonalumi @andersonsprincess

@abbysgirl1 @totalfinalgirl @90yearoldbear @hypnagogics @pretty-forest-nymph

@sapphicxprincess @carti9 @seraphicsentences @wxwrites @veraandrea7

all done yayaya. i dont know why i cant write something under 1k words like i told myself this was gonna be short and then i hit 4 pages and was like oopsies. u better like it bc i have a huge exam tomorrow that i shouldve been studying for but instead i was writing this erotica to post on tumblr.com. so go ahead and smash that subscribe button and reblog a billion times and comment your favorite part of this video (erotica posted to tumblr.com)

kay night night western hemisphere baddies goodmorning/afternoon everyone else love u bye bye

[lovegreenie]

Check-Out  |  NSH Riki  |  西村 力

INTERLUDE

synopsis. Riki’s favorite hobby is shopping, and the only thing that can top that is shopping with (or for) you

pairing. idol bf! riki X fem! reader

essie’s ✉️. Currently cooking something up!! a few somethings at that:) in the meantime, have a thread of cute thoughts about shopping with Riki<3 thankies again to dear friend @sweethoneyjays for beta reading<3

wc. 1.1k

ꔛ Riki is the type to buy you something when he notices you’ve been looking at it for a while. He knows you want it, but can’t or won’t buy it for whatever reason you may have, and he also knows you’re too shy to ask him for it. So what does Riki do? He buys it for you without saying anything; he knows you’d put up a fight if he offered.

“Riks,” You pout, ���Thank you, really; but I don’t want you wasting your money.”

“Baby it’s not a waste of money if I’m spending it on you. Okay?” He says reassuringly, with a gentle smile to match, as he clasps your new bracelet around your wrist.

ꔛ Though he’d never admit it, Riki is an absolute sucker for matching items. It could be clothes, jewelry, knick knacks; it doesn’t matter. You could show off a new hoodie you just bought, and he’d go back inside the store just to get the same one in a bigger size.

“Wha- copycat.” You accuse half-heartedly. Yesterday you showed him your new baby blue gingham pajama set, and now he just walked out of your bathroom clad in his own pair of gingham PJs.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Riki says with a satisfied grin as he settles down next to you on the bed, pulling you closer to him before placing a kiss on your cheek.

ꔛ Button Pins? Keychains? You’re a fein for them. All your bags have at least 5 pins on them, and each have their own set of keychains dangling on the side. Every so often when you guys are out, you’d buy some that you think would look cute on Riki, like a little crocheted duckie on a chain, a pin with little stars, or an acrylic dango charm. You buy some and put them on him, thinking he doesn’t notice, but he does.

And he loves when you do it.

“What’s this?” Jake asks with a confused grin when he sees a Miffy keychain hanging from Riki’s belt loop.

Riki smiles when he remembers you hanging it on there while he was getting ready that morning, “She does this thing; scatters pins and other charms across my clothes when she thinks I’m not looking.”

“And you keep them on?” Jake says teasingly.

“Of course,” Riki replies proudly “They’re from her.”

It doesn’t matter what he’s wearing that day, if the charm matches his fit or not, or if he’s got a schedule with the other members; he’s keeping it on him.

ꔛ The chances of coming across a Lego store while you guys are at the mall are pretty decent, and every time you guys stumble across one, you spend a minimum of 2 hours at the activity table building alongside kids. It’s one of your favorite pastimes since the two of you get to just play around and build stupid stuff.

Every now and then one of the little kids sitting beside you guys would talk up a storm about how 1st grade is going for them. Riki, ever so fond of children, is always a good audience to them; he listens attentively and asks them questions in that typical kindergarten teacher voice. You spend the entire time just quietly admiring how gentle Riki is with kids as you build a mini replica of the home you hope to share with him in the future.

You’re too lost in your affection for Riki to notice that he’s placed a baby lego figure in between the lego figurines of him and you in the mini living room you’ve made. It snaps you out of your trance, urging you to look at him.

“That’ll be us,” Riki says, the tenderness in his voice dripping like honey as he tucks your hair behind your ear, “One day.”

ꔛ As the youngest in the group, Riki is the other members’ little errand boy every now and then; that includes always being one of two members tasked to buy the weekly groceries. He’d drag you with him and whichever member he’s with of course.

Now, you think it’d be a cute idea right? “Awhh is this what it’s gonna be like when we live together in the future?” You thought to yourself the first time he asked you to come with.

You quickly learned that that was indeed the case, but you don’t entirely know how to feel about it.

See, you love Riki to bits—he’s the love of your life for crying out loud—but that doesn’t absolve him of being a little menace. Every time you go to the supermarket with him, he’ll start playing hide and seek in the middle of your shopping, and you end up going on a wild goose chase trying to find him before heading to the check-out counter.

You think you see his head peeking through the top of one of the aisles? You run over there as quickly as you can, only to find that the tall ass kid is now in the aisle you just came from.

Lord have mercy.

“Okay okay baby, I’m sorry,” Riki says over the phone after taunting you for a good 20 minutes, “Where are you and Jungwon hyung? I don’t see you guys at any of the counters.”

“Oh, we’re back at the dorms and unpacking the groceries.”

“YOU WHAT???”

Safe to say Riki’s learned his lesson… for the time being, that is.

ꔛ Riki’s fashion sense is always making headlines on stan twt, and that wardrobe’s gotta come from somewhere of course. While his closet is decked out with pieces from high end brands, some of his favorite and most frequently worn items came from thrifting dates with you.

You could argue that bagging some of the rarest finds either of you have ever seen would be the highlight of those thrift sessions, but for Riki, his favorite part is honestly just following you around and taking candid shots of you as you peruse the dense racks of clothes.

“Riks!! This button-up would look cute on you, don’t you think?” Just as you turn around to show him what you found, the flash of his digicam takes you by surprise.

“Baby,” You let out a soft giggle, “You still haven’t gotten anything for yourself.”

He hasn’t put down his camera once since you guys have walked in.

Riki walks over and shows you all the pictures he’s taken of you so far, “Oh I think I’ve got plenty for myself, princess.”

You roll your eyes fondly, ignoring the red blooming on your cheeks as he places a soft kiss on top of your head.

[covenofagatha]

Only say my name

Agnes x reader

You resort to a desperate measure to get your ex-girlfriend to talk to you

Word count: 3k

Warnings: daddy kink, semi-public sex, fingering, oral, handcuffs, light choking, degradation

A/N: got this idea after listening to "Just One Yesterday" by Fall Out Boy lol

The flashing red and blue lights alert you of her arrival and you perk up from where you’re lounging against a dark windowsill in an alley. 

The cop car is hidden from your view but the sound of the door opening is unmistakable before it slams shut. Boots thump against the sidewalk, a shadow growing longer in the flickering lights. 

Your heart beats fast in your chest and you wipe your clammy palms on your short skirt as she rounds the corner and pauses, taking you in with a detested grimace. 

“Detective,” you drawl, a slow smirk spreading across your face. Your skin is already heating up just from the sight of her.

Agnes O’Connor rakes her eyes over you, pursing her lips. The glow from her car illuminates the wrinkles on her pale face and the iciness in her blue eyes. Her dark hair is pulled back in a loose ponytail and she’s wearing her signature flannel with a navy fleece windbreaker and the black pants you know make her ass look good. Handcuffs dangle from her belt loop and she shrugs back her jacket so you can see them better. 

She steps forward until she’s only a few feet away from you and sniffs as she takes in your surroundings. It’s a small alleyway littered with empty soda cans, glass from broken beer bottles, milk crates that have never had anything in them, and puddles that never seem to completely dry. The building you’re leaning against is Alfie’s, a dive bar that’s frequented on weekends, but not so much on Tuesdays like today. 

“Want to tell me why the station got a call about an hour ago telling me that my ex-girlfriend is selling cocaine outside Alfie’s?” Agnes asks gruffly, resting a foot on top of a crate. 

You simper coyly and tap a finger to your lips thoughtfully. “Hmm, about an hour ago? Oh—maybe because that’s when I placed the anonymous tip.” 

To her credit, she doesn’t even look surprised. “So you’re not selling cocaine?” 

Pushing off the window, you step closer and notice the way she becomes more guarded. It stings but you brush it off. “I just missed you,” you say softly.

Pretending to commit a second-degree felony just to get an ex’s attention is definitely a new low for you. But sometimes desperate times call for desperate measures and she wasn’t returning any of your texts and calls. 

Plus it worked. 

“You’re insane,” Agnes scoffs and you grin manically before closing the distance and tracing a finger down her jacket zipper. 

“You don’t miss me, Agnes?” you ask, voice pure and sweet. You give her the doe-eyes that always used to work on her. 

She grabs your wrist and holds it tightly. “It’s been three months. It was for the best. You need to move on.” 

Undeterred, you wrench your arm from her grip, getting a thrill. “That doesn’t answer my question.” 

Agnes holds your unwavering stare, the vein in her forehead throbbing amidst the police car lights, until she can’t do it anymore. Her gaze drops to the ground and she doesn’t answer. 

Feeling victorious, you run a hand down her chest and stomach, stopping when you get to the button of her pants and she shivers and refuses to look at you now. 

“You don’t think about me at night when you’re all alone in bed?” you whisper and her cheek twitches. Your finger circles her button, waiting for her permission. “When you’ve had a long day at work and you wish there was someone there to help take the edge off?” 

Her jaw clenches. “No,” Agnes spits out, but you were together long enough to tell when she’s lying. 

“Really?” you breathe and curl the wispy tendrils of her hair uncaptured in her ponytail around your fingers. She gives you a curt nod, eyes darting everywhere in the dark alley. “Then why are you here?” 

This makes her falter. “What?” 

You step back with a shrug and a raise of your eyebrow. “I called the station and left the tip. Didn’t mention you by name or anything. You could’ve left it alone and let someone else deal with me. But here you are.” 

“That doesn’t mean anything,” she argues as you smile smugly. “I just wanted to see the depths you’ve fallen to now. I’ve seen the tramps you’ve been parading around town with. Dealing drugs though? That might be rock bottom for you.” 

“Wow, you know, for someone who broke up with me because you were ‘too busy,’ you sure have been keeping extensive tabs on me,” you say sardonically. 

Agnes rolls her eyes. “And you pretended to be selling crack to get me to talk to you. Do you know how much trouble you would be in if it wasn’t me who came here? Giving a false report and wasting a detective’s time? That’d be at least a night in jail and then a fine.” 

You hold out your arms to her, wrists pressed together and stick out your bottom lip. “Arrest me then.” 

She looks you up and down, brows furrowing. “What? No. Get out of here and stop wasting my time.” 

“Oh, come on, Detective. You can’t be caught giving special treatment, even to your ex. Go on—arrest me.” 

Scowling, Agnes unclips her handcuffs from her belt loop, roughly grabs your shoulder and spins you around, and locks one cuff around your wrist and then the other. You don’t miss her sharp intake of breath when you press your ass against her crotch and you smile. You’re violently reminded of all the times she restrained you in other ways and you wonder if she’s thinking of them too. 

When she pushes you forward by the chain, you can feel the slick between your legs. 

“Aren’t you going to tell me my rights?” 

She stops and looks at you, eyes hard but curious. Much like you know her, she knows you just as well. 

And Agnes knows you’re up to something. 

“Fine,” she gives in. “You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be held against you.” 

You hold her gaze and lean in with a wicked smirk. “Agnes.” 

There’s a shadow of heat on her face and the gleam in her eye stands out against the red and blue lights that are still flashing. 

But she sets her jaw and shoves you forward, leaving you scrambling to adapt. 

“Okay fine. How about…daddy,” you rasp and she almost misses her step. 

Agnes steps away from you and tousles her hair, messing it up even more, like she’s deciding what to do with you. Your stomach twists and burns and your cunt is almost aching with her proximity. 

When you were together, you had sex almost every night. Three months without it has left you incredibly desperate for touch and no matter who you’ve tried to fill the void with, you’ve just been left unsatisfied and missing Agnes. 

Without warning, she grabs you by the throat and your breath catches. Her lip curls as she walks you backwards until you’re pressed against the exterior of Alfie’s. 

“Is this what you wanted?” she seethes and you strain against the cold metal around your wrists. 

“Yes,” you choke out. 

Agnes laughs cruelly. “You were so fucking desperate for this that you risked getting arrested?” 

“What was I supposed to do, Agnes? You wouldn’t talk to me!” 

She grabs your cheeks and smushes them together so you can’t say anything else. It hurts your jaw but you moan anyway. 

“Well, you got what you wanted, didn’t you, honey?” she asks condescendingly. You nod anyway and she squeezes tighter. “Now what am I going to do with you?” 

You garble something nonsensically and she lets go of your face with an amused look. 

It takes you a moment to catch your breath, but then you offer, “ I can go down on you?” 

Agnes is caught off guard but her face quickly resets. “Are you trying to bribe a detective?” 

“Depends,” you say, teasing lilt to your voice. “Is it working?” 

She growls and grabs a fistful of your hair before lowering you down to your knees. The gravel on your skin makes you wince but she unzips her pants and shoves them down just enough for her to widen her stance over you and you forget all about the sting. 

Her plain black underwear makes you gasp and she yanks on your hair again to pull you forward. The handcuffs bite your wrists as you struggle but the pain bleeds into pleasure when Agnes’s short nails scratch at your head. 

“Make daddy feel good and we’ll see about your punishment,” she says, voice gruff with heat and you lean in, mouth watering, to nip at her cunt through her panties. 

She reaches down with her other hand to slide her underwear to the side and the musky smell of her goes straight to your own pussy and you rub your thighs together to try to relieve some of the pressure. 

Instead of going straight for her cunt, you suck kisses into the pale skin of her upper thigh. She makes a sound when you soothe the spot with your tongue and she shivers. 

“Don’t tease,” Agnes orders through gritted teeth and you chuckle. 

The first drag of your flattened tongue through her folds has her hand tightening in your hair and she hisses. She is fucking wet. 

Agnes can pretend she doesn’t miss you all she wants, but her body betrays her. It makes your own crackle with electricity and there’s a burning fire in your core. 

You tease around her clit with kitten-licks and she’s biting her lip to hold back her noises—you know how loud she can be—but her head is tossed back and the glow from her car has her euphoric expression lit up. 

You finally lick her clit directly and she lets out a muffled groan. Your wrists feel rubbed raw but you still keep pulling like maybe you’ll be able to break free and touch her. She keeps your hair gripped tight so she can keep you where she wants you and you continue lapping at her clit. 

Agnes groans, less-restrained this time, when you trail your tongue down and shove it inside her, curling it, and moaning at her sweet heat that floods your mouth. 

She begins to rut her hips against your face and as your tongue strokes inside her cunt, the tip of your nose rubs against her clit until she overwhelms all of your senses. You hear yourself making noises and the dull ache in your wrists momentarily distracts you before she pulls your hair again and brings you back to the present. 

You wish more than anything that you could touch her, feel her clenching around your fingers as you curl three of them up deep inside her just the way she likes. She keens when you massage her spongy spot with your tongue and bucks her hips harder. Your face is getting wetter and you tilt your head ever-so-slightly to the side to get a breath of air before you dive back in. 

“Fuck, right there,” Agnes gasps and grinds down against your tongue. Your cunt is throbbing right now, slickness spilling out around your panties, and you moan into her. 

She swears again at the vibrations and tries to spread her legs even wider so your tongue can get deeper inside her but it doesn’t work that well, so she drags you back up to her clit. You latch onto it like it’s a lifeline and she says something that you can’t quite make out. 

You alternate between hard licks and sucking on her clit, straining against the cuffs uncontrollably, while she continues to ride your face. 

“God, I forgot how good your mouth is,” she groans and you scrape your teeth against her in response, making her jolt. Her wetness is coating your cheeks—you can feel how sticky she’s made you—and you willingly drink more of her, willingly devour more of her because you’ve just fucking missed her so much. 

“Daddy,” you gasp out against her cunt, just loud enough for her to hear, and you feel her throb. 

Your biceps are taut, burning, already sore, your elbows are stiff from being locked straight for too long, and your wrists feel wet—none of it matters because Agnes lets out a high-pitched sound and bucks so hard that her pelvis hits your nose. 

“I’m close,” she gasps out. “Daddy’s so close.”

Enclosing your lips around her clit, you suck roughly and then lash your tongue against her while she continues to move against your mouth. Her clit is pulsing, wetness is gushing out of her pussy and onto your chin and—

The coil snaps inside of her and Agnes comes all over your face with quiet moans, not wanting to give you any more satisfaction than that. You keep licking at her through her orgasm and then double-down your efforts once she stops shaking, but she tugs you away from her, muttering something about being “too sensitive.” 

Your head stings when she pulls you up by your hair and pushes your back against the wall. It’s hard to lean against it properly with your hands restrained behind you but you stop worrying about it when Agnes, after pulling up her underwear and pants, presses against you and slides a hand between your legs. 

“What do you say, detective?Think I can get off for good behavior?” you ask slyly and she rolls her eyes and moves suddenly. 

A strangled gasp tears itself from your throat when she slides two fingers over the wet gusset of your underwear and prods your opening through the fabric, getting it more soaked with you. 

“Such a slut for daddy, aren’t you?” she coos and you nod pathetically. A smile stretches across her face, etching the lines in her chin and cheeks and forehead and you get the sudden urge to run your tongue over them. She leans in, mouth pressed against your ear. “Say it.” 

Fuck. “I’m a slut for you, daddy,” you whine and you can feel her smirking. She keeps teasing you, circling your clit through your panties so you keep going. “Such a slut that I’d do anything for you to fuck me, I just need you so badly, please, daddy—” 

Agnes peels your underwear from your sopping cunt and slides three fingers in immediately. Your mouth drops open but no sound comes out and she chuckles breathlessly before setting a bruising pace. You pull frantically at the cuffs because you need to get her closer to you, but it’s to no avail. 

She sees you struggling but instead of letting you out, she just smirks and leans down to bite your neck. You hiss at her teeth and she sucks hard on a particularly rough thrust and it has you reeling. 

“Oh god, feels so good,” you babble, head falling back against the wall and she curls her fingers deep. Pleasure skyrockets inside you, the blue and red lights from her cop car mirroring the fireworks through your body. It all bleeds together and you’re panting open-mouthed against her windbreaker as she fucks you. 

“You’re just a desperate slut for me,” she repeats and you nod again because that’s all you can say. “Willing to risk getting arrested just to get my fingers back inside you—fuck, you feel so good—god, I wish I would’ve packed tonight.” 

That makes you gutturally moan and your cunt throbs at the thought of her turning you around, hiking up your skirt, and shoving her big, purple strap into you, the one that always took you some time to work up to, to teach you a lesson about wasting her time. 

“Maybe next time I’ll actually sell cocaine,” you say breathlessly and she laughs before twisting her fingers roughly. 

“You would if it meant you got fucked,” she retorts and her free hand loosely grabs your neck. Even the slight pressure is enough to make you dizzy and the pleasure heightens. Your core is tightening, walls clenching tightly around her fingers, head spinning—she’s too good. 

“Just by you,” you choke out. “Only by you, fuck, daddy—Agnes, I’m gonna—” 

She curls her fingers again and rubs against your g-spot. “Come for me, baby girl.” 

Her thumb swipes at your clit and you fall over the edge, your cunt convulsing around her fingers as she steadily keeps pumping them in and out of you. If you listen closely enough, you can hear your wetness squelching and you can certainly still feel it on your upper thighs. 

Agnes pulls out of you slowly and you grimace at the sudden emptiness that fills your cunt. She cleans her fingers off in her mouth while you watch transfixed. She lets out a low groan at your taste and your clit aches again. 

Will she take you back to her place? Does this change anything? 

You hope both answers are yes. 

She turns you around by the shoulders and you blink at the building, confused for a second, before you feel her hands on your wrists. 

“Fuck,” she mutters. 

There’s a click and your right hand is freed and then another click and the metal restraints are gone. 

You face her and flex your wrists behind your back before raising them up and you see why she cursed. Your skin is scratched and burned from your struggling, specks of blood dotting in a ring. 

She gingerly grabs your forearms and rotates them to assess the damage. Agnes has never used real handcuffs on you, ones that couldn’t easily be broken out of, and you can tell she feels bad. 

“You can buy me dinner to make up for it?” you suggest playfully. She looks at you, eyes earnestly searching your face for something you’re not quite sure of, but after a moment, she nods and puts an arm around your shoulders. 

“Let’s get you cleaned up first,” she murmurs, walking you to her car, and you have to tilt your head away so she doesn’t see the dopey grin on your face. 

Taglist: @lostbutlovely33 @diorrxckstar @whoreforolderfictionalwomen  @katekathry @onemansdreamisanothermansdeath @tayasmellsapples @natashashill @mybraininblood @mysticalmoonlight7  @cactuslover2600 @loveem0mo @readysteddiero-nance @lonelyhalfwitch @lesbiantortilla @crescendoofstars @sol-in-wonderland @ahsfan05 @gbab09 @sasheemo @agathaharness @live-laugh-love-lupone @chiar4anna @fuckedupforkhahn @lowlyjelly @sweetmidnights @n3bula-cats @m1vfs @agathascoven1

[octaneink]

Smooth

Will Lenney x Female!Reader

Summary: Will and the reader enjoy their vacation time while Will sends death glances to flirty divers. (He trusts you. He just doesn’t trust them.) Warnings: None! Notes: Part two of Super trouper, based on this ask! Sorry this took so long! Work's been busy, and I wasn't sure if this made sense or was cute.

Salt-stiffened linen flaps against a terracotta wall, stirred by a breeze that smells of iodine and dried thyme. The Tyrrhenian Sea sprawls beyond the balcony, sun still low enough to cast long shadows across the glinting water. A lizard skitters over the railing, pauses, flicks its tongue at the soft clatter of wheels on cobblestones below.

Clack-clack-clack.

The sound grates, rhythmic, familiar. Will’s suitcase rolls behind him, obedient as a hound, while yours lists sideways, its left wheel sheared clean off by Heathrow’s baggage handlers. You’d watched him at the carousel earlier—back rigid, eyes tracking the conveyor belt like a hawk—as he hefted his own suitcase first, then plucked yours from the belt with a grunt, fingers snagging the handle seconds before it lurched past. The broken wheel clattered out moments later, rolling three feeble rotations before collapsing. Will had gone very still, your luggage dangling from his grip. 

He put down the luggage and kelt down to inspect the luggage.

A quiet slump of his shoulders, fingers tracing the cracked plastic. “They’ve butchered it,” he’d murmured, more to himself than you. An attendant had flitted over, already rehearsing the ‘not liable for cosmetic damage’ spiel, but Will cut her off with a weary sigh. “It’s not cosmetic. The wheel’s structural. Look.”

From his crouched position, he tilted the suitcase to show the mangled axle, then pulled up a pre-departure photo on his phone—your luggage pristine on the bedroom floor, wheels intact. “We’ve got a two-week trip. How’s this meant to hold up?” His voice stayed calm, but his thumb tapped the screen edge, restless. “I’d like to file a report. Properly.”

You’d hovered, torn between embarrassment and a flicker of guilt as he filled out the form in meticulous block letters, the attendant’s resolve wilting under his quiet persistence. “Like I said sir, the best we can do is a partial refund,” she’d conceded finally, avoiding his gaze. “And we can try this?” She produced a roll of duct tape, neon green and already peeling at the edge.

Will stared at it.

Blinked.

“That’s not—”

But she was already crouching, wrapping the tape around the fractured wheel hub in haphazard loops, her name tag jangling with the effort. The tape buckled instantly, adhesive gumming the broken plastic into a lopsided clump. Will’s jaw flexed, but he said nothing, watching as the wheel tilted sideways.

“There!” She stood, dusting her hands with the flourish of a magician completing a trick. “Good as new, yes?”

You bit your tongue, staring at the duct-tape monstrosity. “It’s creative,” you offered, voice thin.

Will’s smile was a rictus grin, knuckles whitening on the suitcase handle. “A masterpiece. Tate Modern should put it behind glass.”

The attendant beamed at you, mistaking politeness for praise. “The refund will process in five business days,” she chirped, tapping her tablet. “We appreciate your patience as a valued customer.”

“Thanks,” you said, too quickly, already tugging Will’s sleeve. “Let’s just—”

“A flamethrower could have done a better job,” Will muttered under his breath, low enough for only you to hear.

You stepped in front of him, blocking his glare. “Thank you.”

She nodded, oblivious, already turning to the next passenger. “Prego! Please enjoy our wonderful country!”

The duct tape emitted a gummy whine as Will dragged the suitcase away, the wheel lurching like a spavined horse. You fell into step beside him, cheeks hot. “That was subtle.”

“Subtlety’s overrated.” he grumbled, tight-lipped, and wheeled the crippled bag away and his own without another word. 

Fingers worried the frayed cuff of your hoodie, cheeks burning. “Sorry,” you mumbled, “This is. it’s my mess.”

Will halted mid-stride. When you dared glance up, his stern mask had slipped—just a boy with flushed ears and a too-stiff spine. “Your mess? You silly goose.” His thumb brushed your wrist, calloused and warm. “Love, the only crime here is that abomination they call a baggage system.” A beat. “And your taste in luggage. Christ, it’s neon pink.”

“It’s coral.”

“Same difference.”

Now the suitcase lurches sideways, its duct-taped wheel catching on a cobblestone seam. You curse, wrestling it back into line, but it drifts again. Will halts ahead, shoulders tensing as the screech of plastic-on-stone grates through the heat.

Without a word, he turns, swaps your mangled luggage for his own, and resumes walking. The good wheels glide smoothly over the path, his stride unbroken. When you arch a brow, he shrugs, adjusting his grip on the broken handle. “You’re terrible at steering.”

The hotel courtyard swallows you whole—whitewashed walls, lemon trees sagging with fruit, a plunge pool glowing turquoise in the shade. Will holds the gate open, fingertips brushing the small of your back as you pass. His touch lingers, warm even through the hoodie.

“Honeysuckle,” he mutters, inhaling. “And chlorine. They over-sanitised the pool.”

You bite back a laugh. “How can you tell that?” 

Will narrows his eyes, a mock-offended glance cast sideways as he lets the gate swing shut behind you. “Because my nose works,” he replies flatly, but the corner of his mouth twitches.

You hum thoughtfully, stepping aside as a bellboy zips past with a rickety luggage cart. “No, I’m serious. Do you have, like, a secret certification for pool chemicals?” You pantomime swirling a glass, sniffing dramatically. “Mm. Chlorine. With notes of crushed penny tile.”

That gets a sound out of him, not quite a laugh, but close. A low huff through his nose, fond and exasperated. “You’re impossible.”

You flash a grin over your shoulder. “You knew that when you booked, non-refundable.”

Will only shakes his head, but there’s a softness there now, something settling in the lines around his eyes. He reaches for your bag again without comment, knuckles brushing yours as you walk through the arched entryway into the cool hush of the hotel lobby.

The clerk at the front desk greets you with a too-bright smile, but Will handles the check-in, passport ready, reservation number memorised, a pen already uncapped before she slides the form across the counter. She’d barely had time to finish her practiced welcome before Will is sliding the paperwork back across the counter, already signed. 

She flips through the documents with a nod of approval, tapping something into her screen with the precision of a seasoned concierge. “You’re in room 304,” she says warm. “Top floor, corner unit. Sea view and balcony, as requested.”

Will gives a small, satisfied nod. Of course, he requested it.

She slides two sleek, sand-colored key cards toward you. “Breakfast is served from seven to ten each morning in the veranda lounge—just past the lemon grove. You also have two complimentary spa treatments to use during your stay, and access to our private beach club, a short walk down the cliff path. You’ll find towels and umbrellas already set up by the lifeguard.”

You glance at Will. “Did you book the massages already?”

He raises a brow. “I figured I’d let you pick the day. Thoughtful, right?”

You stifle a grin, pocketing your key. “Look at you. Relaxed and democratic.”

Giulia smiles politely, clearly used to couples like you, mild bickering worn soft with familiarity. “If you’d like to schedule anything—dinners, boat tours, vineyard visits—just let me know. Or we can arrange it through the room phone.”

Will nod again, already tucking the map she offers into his folder of printouts. “Thank you,” he says, that clipped politeness that almost sounds like a compliment. “We’ll get settled.”

She beams. “Buona vacanza.”

You follow Will across the terracotta tiles and into the lift, the old metal grate clanking shut behind you. It groans to life, the glass back offering a slow, rising glimpse of the courtyard below. The scent of citrus and salt intensifies the higher you go, riding the shaft of warm air that sneaks through the cracks.

On the third floor, the hallway is hushed and cool, with thick stone walls and arching ceilings that echo faintly underfoot. Will leads the way, key card already in hand, stopping in front of a carved wooden door with a brass number plate.

The room greets you with a rush of light and quiet. Vaulted ceilings curve overhead, white and seamless like the inside of a shell. Muslin curtains framing the tall French doors, stirred by a breeze that smells of rosemary, sand, and sun-warmed salt. The tiled floor is cool underfoot, handmade and uneven, the colour of dried clay. Two chairs, wicker-framed and sun-bleached, are set beside a low table bearing a ceramic bowl of fresh figs. A ceiling fan spins lazily above the bed, which is wide and dressed in crisp white linen.

But it’s the view that stops you. You step out onto the balcony, elbows resting on the warm stone balustrade. Below, the Tyrrhenian Sea stretches vast and glittering, fractured into sapphire and teal by the light. A rocky cove curves away to the right, ringed with pale sand and lapped by small waves. Farther down the hill, narrow switchback roads wind through bursts of oleander and cypress trees, their shadows sharp against the earth.

Inside, you hear the faint click of zips, the rustle of folded cotton. When you turn, Will is methodically unpacking your bags with the same care he applies to boarding passes and security bins. He’s already tucked your shoes under the bench by the door, rolled your shirts into neat cylinders, and zipped your toiletries into the bathroom caddy without a word.

He crosses the room to the wardrobe, sliding open a painted door to reveal a built-in safe. Without prompting, he gathers your passports, wallet, spare cash, and the extra travel card—each one stacked precisely in his palm—and locks them away. He glances back at you, not for approval, but in quiet confirmation. Of course, he’d remember. You didn’t even ask.

Then, from the depths of his own case, a toothbrush, a razor placed beside a contact lens case, a bottle of hand sanitiser fitted snugly against his cologne. He smooths a wrinkle from the bedspread with the side of his hand, then pauses—almost sheepishly—and pulls out a battered box of Yorkshire Gold.

He sets it on the night stand beside a single Toblerone. “For emergencies,” he mutters, not quite meeting your eye.

You smile, fingers brushing the box. “You packed the good stuff.”

“I always do.” He says it too casually, but his ears flush faintly pink.

You don’t hover. He’s in his rhythm now, methodical and focused, and you know better than to disrupt the quiet ritual of his unpacking. Instead, you drift to the balcony, the muslin curtain brushing against your legs as you slip outside.

The sun is higher now, gilding the sea in bright ribbons that shimmer as far as you can see. You rest your forearms on the warm stone balustrade, your shirt tugs up your back in the breeze. Below, the cove curves gently into the shoreline, its sand pale and untouched, waves folding in soft and deliberate.

You let your thoughts slow. The only sound is the hush of the surf and the occasional chirp of birds darting through the trees.

Then, quiet footsteps behind you, and the subtle shift of weight as Will steps in close. His arms wrap around your waist without a word, slow and certain, palms splayed over your stomach. He leans into you, resting some of his weight against your back like he needs the contact just as much as you do.

You feel his breath first, warm against your skin, and then the press of his mouth at the crook of your neck, a kiss. Only then does he let his chin settle on your shoulder, his stubble brushing lightly against your collarbone.

“Low tide at six,” he murmurs, voice low near your ear. He nods toward the cove below. “We could look for sea glass.”

A pause. Then, softer, “If you want.”

You smile, the words sinking in—if you want. Coming from Will, it feels like a small surrender. He doesn’t do unstructured. He plans everything down to the minute, has probably had this whole trip mapped out since before your passports were renewed. And still, he offered.

Your fingers slide over his at your waist, giving a small squeeze. “Hmm,” you murmur, leaning back into him. “Yeah, I want to. But we can do it later. I know you’ve got every second of this trip scheduled, down to our bathroom breaks.”

Will snorts, lips brushing your shoulder. “Not every second,” he grumbles, mock-offended. “It’s a perfectly reasonable balance of cultural immersion and rest.”

You laugh. “So, overbooked with a nap squeezed in.”

He hums noncommittally. “Wednesday morning,” he says. “The museum doesn’t open till ten, and the tide’s low around seven. We’ll go then. Beat the sun.”

You glance over your shoulder, raising an eyebrow. “You already worked it in?”

He tries to play it off with a shrug, but the corners of his mouth betray him. “I might’ve pencilled in a sea glass window. Just in case you said yes.”

You grin. “God, you’re such a nerd.”

He presses another kiss just below your ear. “And yet, here you are.” Giving you one last kiss, he walked into the room, rummaged around and called your name. Turning around, he hands you a bottle of sunscreen without a word.

You look at the label. It’s your brand, the kind with the matte finish that doesn’t make you feel like a buttered croissant. You nod in approval and utter a thank you and then squeeze some into your palm.

“I’m not letting you get sunburnt on day one,” he mutters, watching you apply it like you might cut corners. “And don’t even think about wearing that black top.”

“It’s linen,” you protest.

“It’s black linen. You’ll bake like a pastry. Wear the one with the buttons. The white one.”

You squint at him. “Did you plan my clothes too?”

Will doesn’t answer, but when you glance over, the white top is already laid out, neatly smoothed and folded. You sigh, smile despite yourself, and duck into the bathroom to change. When you come out, dressed and lotioned to his standards, he gives you a quick once-over and nods. “Perfect. Hat’s in your tote. Water bottle’s full. Let’s go.”

Nuraghe stones bake under a merciless sun, their ancient honeycombs casting knife-edge shadows across the dry grass. The heat clings to everything rocks, sandals, the nape of your neck, rising in ripples from the gravel path. Will’s voice hums beside you, reading the faded information plaque out loud.

“Bronze Age. Dry-stone masonry. Strategic sight lines for tribal warfare.” He squints at the last line, nose wrinkling. “Bit reductive, isn’t it? Reducing three millennia of culture to ‘they were good at spotting enemies’.”

You drift away from his voice, lured by the woeful maaah of a goat picking its way down the scrub-choked slope. It’s a shaggy, sun-bleached thing, all knobby knees nibbling at a thorn bush without a thought behind its eyes. You raise your camera, framing its ragged silhouette against the impossible blue of the sea. The shutter clicks—

“Oi.”

Gravel crunches in front of you. Will’s hand closes around your elbow, thumb skating over the sensitive skin of your inner arm. “Stay close,” he murmurs, pulling you back from the crumbling edge. His palm is warm and slightly tacky with sunscreen. “The path’s unstable.”

You glance at the fissured stones, then up at him. “What, no helmet? Safety harness?”

“No helmet.” His mouth twitches, fighting a smile. “But only because you’d refuse to wear it.” He tugs you toward shade. “And before you gloat—I do have a first-aid kit. And—”

“—industrial-strength bandages?” You interrupt, bumping his shoulder.

“Obviously.” He pulls out the sunscreen. “Arms. Now.”

You groan. “Will, I just—”

“You’re meant to re-apply the sunscreen every two hours. Plus, I’m pretty sure that the lotion sweats off on the hike up.” He squirts cool lotion onto his palm.

His touch is methodical. Up your forearm, over your shoulder, down the exposed strip of your spine. You shiver.

“See?” he murmurs, breath warm at your ear. “Quick and easy.”

“Hmm. Debatable.” You lean into his hands.

He huffs, thumb brushing your shoulder blade. “You’re welcome.” His gaze flicks past you to the goat, now perched on a boulder. “Your accomplice is eyeing the ‘unstable path’ sign.”

“He’ll be fine. Braver than you with your bandages.”

“He’s got four legs and a death wish.” Will’s sunscreen-slick hand slides down to lace with yours. “Like someone else I know.”

You squeeze. “Admit it. You’re jealous he’s off the itinerary.”

“Devastated.” He kisses your temple, a quick peck. “Now move. Lemon granita in about an hour. And he’s” a nod at the goat, now nibbling a discarded map, “not on the guest list.”

Two days later, after another morning of ruins, espresso, and Will arguing with the GPS, you both return to the hotel sun-drenched and dust-covered. The lemon trees in the courtyard sag heavier than before, their scent headier in the late afternoon warmth. A breeze stirs the muslin curtains as you enter the room, and Will immediately begins his ritual—shoes lined up, water bottles refilled, receipts sorted.

You peel off your sandals and stretch. “I vote for collapsing.”

Will arches a brow. “You’ll thank me later when we don’t have to guess which bag has what.”

You toss him a grin and wander toward the bathroom. “Fine. But collapsing is still on the agenda.”

By the time you’ve showered, the light outside has turned syrupy gold. The air is thick with the scent of salt and thyme drifting up from the coast. Will’s already changed linen shirt, open over his swim trunks, wristwatch still on, because, of course it is.

“We going somewhere?” you ask, towel-drying your hair.

“Beach. Just below the hotel.” He nods toward the balcony. “It’ll be quiet. Low tide.”

You pause, glancing past the fluttering curtain to the glittering curve of pale sand below. “Was this in the itinerary?”

He shrugs, casual. “Call it unscheduled decompression.”

You dress in your favourite old swimsuit—the black triangle one with fraying ties that’s probably more nostalgia than structurally safe. When you step out, Will’s eyes catch on you, then dart quickly away.

“I thought you packed the white one,” he says without looking.

“I did.” You tug on one of his loose linen shirt. “But this one’s got personality.”

“Mmm. So does a cracked buoy.” But there’s no heat in it. Just the barest smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Minutes later, you’re descending the narrow, pine-lined path from the back of the hotel, beach bag slung between you. The sea glows a soft, blinding gold, and the beach is nearly empty—just a couple reading under an umbrella and a dog nosing at driftwood.

Will sets up camp, umbrella at a wind-smart angle, towels laid edge-to-edge with no sand trapped beneath, Kindle powered on to a biography you’ve already teased him about. He settles beneath the tree, long limbs stretching out in the shade.

You drop your bag and tug the shirt over your head. His eyes flick up—pause—then very clearly drop lower, lingering just a beat too long on your chest. You catch the flicker of heat before he yanks his gaze away, suddenly deeply absorbed in the paper bag of grapes you picked up together at the morning market. Crunchy, plump, and green. Your favourite.

“Twice now,” you tease, stepping out of your sandals. “You stared in the hotel room, too.”

Will doesn’t look up. “I did not stare.”

“You did,” you hum, sliding the neoprene shoes onto your feet. “And I didn’t mind then, either.”

"I was being subtle." he huffs, cheeks flushing pink as he pops a grape into his mouth. 

You lean down, brush a kiss to his cheek—then, impulsively, to his lips. "You’re cute when you lie."

His hand catches your wrist as you start to pull back, fingers tightening gently, anchoring you in place. For a beat, neither of you moves—the world narrowing to the press of his palm against your thigh, the salt-sting of breeze on your cheeks. Then he shifts, still seated in the sand, and his free hand slides up to cradle the curve of your hip.

The kiss starts slow. 

A deliberate tilt of his chin, the soft drag of his lower lip against yours—then deepens with a quiet urgency. His mouth coaxes yours open, not with demand, but with a patient, searching heat that melts your spine. Salt and the faint sweetness of grapes linger on his tongue. Your balance wavers, one hand flying to his shoulder, fingers digging into the sun-warmed cotton of his shirt. He smiles against your mouth, a low amused hum vibrating in his throat as he feels you sway.

This is the surrender you teased him about in the past. The way his thumb strokes the hollow behind your knee, the hitch in his breath when you bite his lip. The sea wind whips around you, tangling your hair with his, but beneath it all is the steady thrum of his pulse where your palm rests against his neck. He kisses like he plans—thoroughly, with deadly focus—mapping the seam of your lips, the ridge of your teeth, and the soft gasp you can’t swallow.

When he finally pulls back, it’s only far enough to rest his forehead against yours. His eyelashes brush your skin as he blinks, thumb drifts across your pulse point once, then falls away.

"Sunscreen first," he says, voice lower now, rougher. He tosses you the tube without looking. "Shoulders. Neck. Don’t skip the back of your knees."

You raise an eyebrow. “Very romantic.”

“I contain multitudes,” he says, smiling, but it’s softer now. Less of a tease, the kiss still clinging between you.

You roll your eyes, but the warmth in your chest lingers as you apply the sunscreen quickly, then grab your mask and flippers. “Alright, I’m going in.”

“You’ve got about forty-five minutes,” he calls after you, plucking a grape from the bunch. “Before I start filing a missing person’s report with the coast guard.”

“I’ll try to survive,” you say, grabbing your snorkel gear and heading to the waterline.

You don’t look back. The warm grit gives way to damp, packed sand as you reach the water’s edge. Squatting, you yank the neoprene flippers over your heels—awkward, stiff, sealing your feet like a second skin. Next, the goggles: you spit into the lenses, rub the film clear with your thumb (an old diver’s trick your dad taught you), then strap the elastic band over your hair. The snorkel clicks into the mask’s bracket, its mouthpiece faintly tasting of silicone.

“Try not to drown!” Will calls, louder now over the surf’s hiss.

You turn just enough to see him—a silhouette against the towel, knees drawn up, watching. You raise a middle finger, grinning when he barks a laugh.

Beneath the surface, the world softens and blurs into a dreamlike palette of blues and greens. Sunlight filters through the water in flickering shafts, illuminating swaying forests of seagrass. Tiny bubbles rise in lazy trails as you glide over craggy rocks and scattered shells.

Colourful fish dart between the waving fronds — vivid damselfish shimmering like liquid sapphire, silver mullets flickering by in schools, and a curious wrasse that pauses to inspect you before darting away. 

As you explore, your eyes catch delicate shapes resting on the sand—beautiful shells, smooth and unoccupied, their spiral curves and pearly interiors gleaming in the filtered light. Carefully, you scoop a few up, mindful they hold no creatures. You pause over one in particular—ridged pink, iridescent inside, like something out of a dream. With no pouch on hand, you tuck it into the cup of your bikini top, nestled securely against your skin. A little treasure to bring back.

Above, the surface ripples gently, catching the golden afternoon sun. The distant sound of gulls and waves mingles with your own steady breathing, a private escape in the beautiful waters.

Then—a flicker in your peripheral vision. Someone is beside you.

You turn, kicking gently, and a hand waves into your line of sight, fingers splayed in the water. You surface slowly, spitting the mouthpiece free as you push the goggles to your forehead, blinking salt from your lashes that drip down from the goggles.

“Scusa,” a voice calls, not too loud.

A man treads water a few feet away—sun-browned, salt curls plastered to his forehead, grin quick and bright. He nods toward your foot, where your flipper strap has come loose, the heel slipping with each kick.

“Permesso?” he asks, gesturing.

You nod, a little surprised, and float still while he dips briefly beneath the surface. His fingers brush your calf as he secures the buckle, tightening it with practiced ease. The touch is light but assured, the briefest pause before he lets go.

He surfaces again, shaking water from his face. “Va meglio adesso,” he says, then studies you a second longer before switching languages. “You speak English?”

“Yeah,” you say. “Thanks.”

“Thought so,” he replies easily. “Strap was slipping. Dangerous. You’d lose a fin.” His eyes linger just a beat longer, his smile edging into something playful. “Would be a shame to lose you to the current. Beautiful girls make very poor flotation devices.”

You open your mouth to respond—something dry, maybe—but then his gaze lifts over your shoulder. His smile flickers. “Ah.”

You turn slightly, following his line of sight.

Will. Standing ankle-deep at the shoreline, towel slung over one shoulder, hand shading his eyes as he watches. He’s too far to hear anything, but the set of his jaw is familiar. Calm. Not angry—just locked in.

The man clears his throat, his smile easing into something friendlier, more platonic. “Boyfriend?” he asks, with a quick nod toward the beach.

You nod.

“Right,” he says, backing up a stroke. “Lucky guy.” His grin softens. “Be careful, okay? The current tugs harder the farther out you go.”

“Got it. Thanks again.”

He salutes you lazily, then kicks off into the open water without another word.

You float a moment longer, then lift your hand above the surface and flash Will a thumbs-up.

He nods once, slow and satisfied, then turns and walks back toward the pine-shaded patch where your towels wait.

You sink below again, letting the quiet take you. The sea folds around you like silk. You drift over pale sand and swaying grass, the occasional dart of a fish slipping past your fingers. Your eyes scan the seabed, finally catching the curved gleam of something nestled between stones.

A flat, fan-shaped scallop shell, sun-bleached on one side and warm orange on the other, like it’s been kissed by fire. You turn it over in your palm, admiring the delicate ridges and faint lines like fingerprint whorls. It’s beautiful, untouched.

Carefully, you lift it to your chest with a quick glance around, the new shell slips easily into the other cup, the curve of it cool against your skin. No pouch, no problem. You adjust the top slightly and smile to yourself. Will’s going to roll his eyes so hard when you pull these out later.

You turn toward the shore, legs already moving in an easy, practised kick. The water resists gently, like it doesn’t want to let you go. Pale sand slopes upward beneath you, sunlight warping across the seabed in soft golden ripples.

As the water shallows, you slow your strokes and rise to the surface. With both hands, you pull the goggles up from your eyes, pushing them onto your forehead, and then work the snorkel free from your mouth. The quiet hush of the underwater world slips away, replaced by the rhythmic rush of waves and the distant caw of gulls overhead. You hold the gear loosely in one hand, letting seawater drip from your fingertips.

With a small hop, you plant your feet on the sandy bottom. Waves lap gently at your thighs, then knees. You bend to unstrap your flippers one by one, lifting your feet carefully before stepping forward, flippers in hand, making your way to the shore.

Will’s already waiting. He stands just at the water’s edge, towel in hand, bare feet half-buried in warm sand. His curls are messier now, salt-stiff and wind-tossed, and he squints slightly in the sun as he watches you approach.

“Towel?” he offers, already unfolding it.

“Perfect,” you say, letting him drape it over your shoulders. It’s sun-warmed and smells faintly of his sunscreen.

As you adjust the towel around you, a small shiver runs through you. The breeze hits your damp skin, raising goosebumps across your arms.

Will notices. “Cold?” he asks, already reaching for the snorkel gear in your hands.

You nod, and he gently takes the flippers, goggles, and snorkel from you. “I’ll carry these. You focus on not freezing. I can always provide emergency cuddles on the beach.”

You huff a laugh, tugging the towel tighter. “That might actually be necessary.”

He tugs the corners snug again, then leans back a little to study you. “How was it?”

You smile, heart still thudding softly in your chest. “Peaceful. Gorgeous. There’s this whole underwater meadow out there. Grass swaying like it’s dancing.”

He arches a brow. “Any wild sea creatures I need to go interrogate?”

“Just one.” You nudge him lightly with your shoulder. “Fixed my flipper and tried flirting while you were giving your best death glare from the shore.”

His mouth twitches. “Wasn’t glaring.”

“Hmm. You scared him off just fine.”

“Good.” He bends to kiss your temple, a hand resting low on your back. “Don’t want to share you with charmers and rogue currents.”

You glance down at your chest and pat it lightly. “Well, I did find a few treasures.”

Will’s brows lift. “Oh?”

You smirk. “You’ll see later. Not beach-appropriate to reveal them now.”

He groans, scrubbing a hand through his hair. “You are a menace.”

“A charming one,” you say, bumping him again as you both begin the short walk back toward your spot beneath the pines, his arm steady around you, towel and gear in tow.

[konigslittleliebling]

## dark emo!simon x bimbo!girlfriend [third person]

dark sexual content! blood kink, knife play, mentions of choking, cum eating, cutting, etc, mdni!

emo!simon who sits his little bimbo!girlfriend on his raw, stiff cock whilst she paints his nails in gunky layers of black varnish. her own nails are manicured — austere french tips, filed to a perfect square edge. her dainty fingers are so tanned in comparison to his pale skin, soft pads strumming and brushing over his knuckles and joints so she can bend his hand to the perfect angle. emo!simon loves having her like this. sitting pretty and behaving herself on his fat cock, keeping him nice and warm. she’s so good to him. taking care of his needs so well with his dick nestled in her cervix whilst she pampers him <33

emo!simon who wears a vial of his bimbo!girlfriend’s blood around his neck. she’s his drug, after all. he wears it like he wears his medals — proudly and absolutely not humbly. it dangles by a silver chain, never tucked beneath his clothing but always on show. it was during a night of heated passion, like most, when his bimbo!girlfriend suggested he mark her as his forever. what better way than to take a knife to the swell of her hip, carving S.R into her bronze skin. it bled a little but not too much thanks to his skill. with the back of the blade he scooped the maroon droplets into the glass pendant. essence of her around his neck, similar to the fingerprints that bruised hers. constant reminders of who they belong to.

his bimbo!girlfriend has one too, though not sporting the crimson contents of emo!simon’s veins but instead the contents of his heavy balls. the red just doesn’t match her sickly style :(( without shame she wears his cum around her neck, sitting perfectly above her ample cleavage. encased by tacky metal gold, the cream she’d milked from his dick is kept inside a circular, transparent crystal and from a distance it could be mistaken for a white akoya pearl. it’s thrilling for emo!simom to see his bimbo!girlfriend adorning his thick seed. the very same cum he’d eaten from her tight cunt the night he fucked it into her tiny womb. hooking it out with his fingers and tongue, slurping his own orgasm into his mouth so he could spit it into the ampoule that now settles upon her plump chest.

emo!simon who lets his bimbo!girlfriend wear his chains. whether around her neck, hooked to her belt loop or clasped to her belly charm. and he likes to fuck her whilst his favourite choker moulds to the sweaty slope of her neck like framework, his hand acting as a second necklace. one time, her blood was caked to her puffy lips where sticky, glittery lipgloss smudged over her chin. all because emo!simon had lapped the blood from where his initials lay permanently stamped to her hip’s curve, before licking it into her mouth :(( he helped reapply her lip gloss after (using the swollen head of his cock) <33

emo!simon who lets his bimbo!girlfriend ink him. his pretty little bimbo was quick to kiss a bright pink lipstick stain to his neck, using it as a stencil to tattoo it into his porcelain skin. but his favourite is the art she needled onto the large surface of his back. in red, she traced the scars left behind by her talons — furious claw marks inked to his rugged, muscular flesh.

emo!simon and bimbo!girlfriend who both have piercings only the other can see <33

[sturnsdarling]

beast boy and raven

smartand'mean'!reader convinces fratboy!matt to dress up with her for halloween

vibe check: fluffy good vibes all round

500 words

A/N: i wrote this sooooooo long ago and forgot that it existed. anyways i love them

love and cigs, merc

The party downstairs had already started, music blaring from every corner of the house. Chris and Matt were in their rooms, getting ready for their first Halloween party of the week. By a string of cruel fate, they stepped out their bedroom doors at the same time, locking eyes as Matt took a swig of his pregame drink and Chris placed his canon joint between his lips. The sight of Matt, in a purple shirt and grey cargos with green hair made Chris erupt into laughter.

“What the fuck are you supposed to be kid? Why is your hair green?” Chris couldn’t contain his laughter.

Matt smacked the dangling joint from Chris lips’ and pushed him by the shoulder.

“y/n wanted to be raven and beast boy, y’know the green kid and the witch chick from teen titans?” Matt said, not able to contain his chuckles at the sight of Chris keeled over in hysterics.

“What are you? A divorced dad of three?” Matt questioned, referring to Chis’ blue Hawaiian shirt.

Chris picked his joint up off the floor and shook his head, his laughter still lingering, “nah dude, m’fuckin Romeo” He says, pulling a fake gold gun from his belt and brandishing it in-front of Matts face.

“Romeo in what century? I swear that’s old as fuck” Matt snickers.

S!r/n came out from Chris’ room, wearing a white dress and angel wings with her hair pulled back in a half up half down. “From the 1996 movie, Matt, duh” She says, pointing between her and Chris.

“Wait, hang on, you’re Romeo and Juliet?” Matt questions, folding his arms over his chest with raised brows.

“Its cute right?” Your voice comes from behind Matt as you loop your arm through his, looking up at him, the dark makeup around your eyes accentuating their beautiful colour.

"You guys look go good” s!r/n says at you and Matt.

Matt grins down and you and puckers his lips. You kiss him quickly, trying not to get your black lipstick on his mouth.

“You two make me sick” Chris says, shaking his head and sparking his joint.

He turns to walk down the stairs and holds his hand out behind him, squeezing his fingers together a couples times, gesturing for his girl to take his hand. She complies, and follows him tightly down the winding staircase towards the music.

Matt turns to face you, tracing delicate fingers over the purple velvet cape that’s draped over your shoulders. He scans your figure, taking in how your black, shiny hot pants hug the tops of your fishnet covered thighs.

“You look so sexy, angel” he murmurs, not taking his eyes off your frame “Thanks Matthew” you smile, cheesing at his compliment. “This makeup too” he sucks air into his pursed lips and shakes his head slightly. “You like it?” You say, leaning up into him, pressing your body against his. “Mhm, I like it a lot” He nods, bringing a firm hand to the side of your face, smiling as he pulls you up into a kiss.

His other hand sneaks down of your backside and squeezes the plump flesh of your ass, followed by a slap that makes you squeal into his mouth. His chuckle breaks the kiss, and he continues to kneed at the flesh of your ass.

“Lets go get drunk” He says “Yes!” You grin up at him, “tequila!” You chant, taking his hand and leading him down the staircase towards the party.

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[eclipsturns]

⎯⎯⎯⎯ cherry waves . . .

01 | 02

the bar’s a murky haze full of smoke twisting under dim bulbs, the tang of spilled liquor soaking the air.

matt’s fresh off the stage, guitar still dangling from his shoulder, deftones tee plastered to his chest with sweat, his dark hair a chaotic spill over those icy blue eyes. y/n’s stuck at her table, soda can slick against her palm, her pulse a frantic thud after his acoustic cherry waves carved itself into her nerves while eli’s griping about “that jerk’s attitude,” and the sight of sophia’s stifling a grin, but y/n’s locked on matt ans his lean frame propped against the bar, exuding a quiet, dangerous pull that’s got her blood racing.

he’s grabbing a beer, bottle clinking sharp on the counter, but his gaze keeps drifting—catching her staring, holding it just long enough to make her squirm.

sophia jabs her side, voice sly, “he’s stripping you with those eyes. go, before eli does something stupid,” and eli huffs, “i’d flatten him,” but y/n’s already moving, legs unsteady, her black skirt brushing her thighs as she crosses the floor, drawn to him like gravity’s gone rogue.

she stops inches away, close enough to catch the leather-and-smoke scent rolling off him, and matt turns slow, a smirk curling his lips.

“what, your little squad bailed on ya?” he drawls, voice thick with mockery, sipping his beer, eyes tracing her from her worn sneakers to the flush climbing her neck. “thought you’d be too chickenshit to face me after droolin’ up there.”

“thought you’d be too busy glaring at nothing to care,” she shoots back, chin high, arms crossed over her thin tank top, her quick breaths giving her away.

he lets out a short, cutting chuckle, stepping in until his boots graze hers, heat pouring off him like a live wire. “i see plenty, you were twitchin’ during cherry waves, weren’t ya? got y’all worked up.”

her face ignites, shame and want tangling because she knows he’s right: those lyrics, that voice, had her thighs clenching, her body buzzing with a reckless ache she can’t dodge. “you think you’re so big because you can play a few chords?” she snaps, but it’s thin, her voice wavering as he leans closer, his breath—beer and a whisper of mint—brushing her lips.

“don’t think—know. you came to me, didn’t ya?” he murmurs, voice sinking low, eyes flicking to her mouth like he’s already claimed it. “bet you’ve been starvin’ for someone t’see ya, and your pals don’t count.”

it’s a sharp dig, laced with heat, and she shoves him with her palms flat on his chest, but he doesn’t flinch, just grabs her wrist, pulling her tight against him, the bar dissolving into static.

“let go, or you’re just gonna flex like some badass?” she hisses, but her other hand’s at his hip, fingers snagging his belt loop, and matt’s smirk turns feral, blue eyes flaring.

“you like me mean, admit it,” he growls, releasing her wrist to trail his hand up her arm, thumb grazing her tank strap, sending a spark straight to her gut. “say you didn’t feel that song, say it didn’t drench ya.”

she stumbles, breath hitching, because he’s nailed it: she’s soaked, aching, and there’s no hiding the fire roaring through her, the way her body presses into his despite her scowl.

“y’so damn full of it,” she whispers, voice fraying, and he grins—dark, wicked—lips brushing her ear. “y’gonna love it when i show ya... ready?”

and that’s her limit, her wild hormones blazing while she grabs his collar, hauling him down the back hall, past the flickering bathroom sign, into a shadowed corner where the bass pulses through the bricks. he’s on her fast, pinning her to the wall, mouth slamming into hers, a fierce clash of teeth and need, wet and urgent.

“fuck, you taste like sin,” he groans, hands diving under her tank, cupping her tits, thumbs teasing her nipples until she gasps, arching into him with a desperate sound.

“you talk too damn much,” she pants, biting his lip sharply, tasting iron and earning a hiss from him, grinning, hips grinding into hers, his hard-on hitting right where she’s throbbing.

“you love it, i bet you’re soaked through,” he mutters, voice all grit and taunt, one hand slipping under her skirt, fingertips brushing her drenched thong, a smug, “fuck, i knew it.”

“matt... holy shit, move,” she gasps, tugging his hair, pulling his mouth back as he slides two fingers inside, curling them deep, pumping fast, making her knees buckle, a loud moan tearing free, wild and unfiltered.

“you’re so fuckin’ starved... been waitin’ f’this, huh?” he growls, sucking a mark onto her neck, fingers working her hard, the wet sound lewd in the tight space, her body quaking, teetering on the edge.

but then it cuts. “matt, dude, let’s roll!” a voice barks gruffly, urgent even, and matt stiffens, head snapping toward the hall; it’s Nate, his bassist, looming there, all buzzed hair and impatience, scowling.

“fuck, right now?” matt snaps, voice rough, fingers still buried in her, and nate snorts, “yeah, now—van’s leavin’, move it.”

matt curses, yanking his hand free, her slick glistening on his fingers as she gasps, thighs trembling, left dangling on the brink. he steps back, smirking dark and slow, lifting those fingers to his mouth, licking them clean, deliberate, eyes locked on hers as he savors it, a low, “fuck, babe, y’taste better than i thought,” rolling off his tongue. “catch ya never, loser,” he mutters, voice dripping with finality, turning sharp and stalking off with his bandmates, leaving her slumped against the wall—breathless, skirt hiked, tank skewed, the ghost of his taste lingering, her body a live wire of unspent heat.

© eclipsturns 's all rights deserved !ㅤ ꕀ ⠀⠀𔘓⠀⠀⠀

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[teapartyprincess4two]

Can you make a Latina reader x Matt sturniolo smut? You can make it up how you want it

Lipstick- M. Sturniolo

pairing: Thick!Latina!reader x Boyfriend!Matt

classification: fluff, smut

inspiration: request^^

translations: embedded within the story!

warnings: 18+, MDNI, literal sex, use of Spanish, Hispanic/ Latino culture mentioned, established relationship, slight cursing, traditional parents, mentions of alcohol, didn’t name any of the side characters, long

summary: Matt’s nervous to meet your family, but after making a good impression you treat him to a night full of kisses and lipstick stains.

—

Matt sits in the living room, nervous hands playing with the keys that hang from his belt loop. Your mother keeps him company, sitting on the sofa across from him as she asks him a plethora of personal and uncomfortable questions. Latina mothers are unashamed to prod into the personal life of others, especially when meeting their daughter’s boyfriend for the first time.

You’ve only been dating Matt for a couple of months, and although he seems like a nice kid, she’s not entirely sure she can trust your judgment just yet. The few boys you’ve brought home before haven’t always necessarily met her high standards. Matt hasn’t done anything to throw her off yet, but she’s sure she’ll find something to dislike. If he manages to stick around long enough, though, he’d surely grow on her.

“So what do you do for work?” your mom asks, momentarily looking up from her latest costura project to catch Matt’s anxious gaze. She expertly weaves the string in and out of the white lace, forming an intricate floral design in the process.

[translation: costura- sewing]

“Oh um… my brothers and I we make YouTube videos,” Matt doesn’t know where to look, he’s afraid to make eye contact but also afraid that if he doesn’t it’ll come off as disrespectful. He’s never been so nervous in his life, and from the look on your mother’s face he can tell that that’s probably not what she wanted to hear.

Your mother scoffs, obviously unimpressed with his answer. “Esta niña, siempre saliendo con los más huevones,” she turns her head towards the stairs. Matt’s been waiting for you to descend for over 30 minutes, and the awkward tension was even becoming too much for her.

[translation: “This girl, always going out with the laziest ones.”]

Matt coughs, taking a quick swig of the water bottle in front of him. He’s nervous, his hands are clammy and he has no idea what your mom just said. What was taking you so long?

“So is YouTube gonna pay the bills?” your mom was abrasive and she knew it, but she couldn’t help it. In her eyes, nobody was worthy enough of her babygirl. Matt remains silent, he doesn’t even know what to say, so she continues, “You know, when you two start having kids.”

The thought of having children at 20 years old terrifies Matt beyond belief, he can feel his hands getting clammier by the second. He understands that it’s a cultural dissonance, though, so he keeps his mouth shut. “We’re not planning on any kids soon, ma’am. We haven’t— Um, we haven’t really talked about it,” his voice trembles slightly, your mom was doing a good job of intimidating him.

Matt takes another swig of his water, his mouth was dry and he felt like his throat was closing up. “Oh, but you’re having sex with my daughter right?” the question is so unapologetically bold that it causes Matt to choke on the liquid, some of it managing to dribble down his chin.

“I’m sorry?” he chokes out, but he heard your mom loud and clear.

Finally, as if on queue, Matt hears footsteps coming down the steps. ‘Finally!’ he thinks, watching as your curvy figure rounds the staircase and enters the living room. Matt shoots up from his spot on the couch, his eyes immediately dancing over your entire body.

You’re wearing a fitted, black bodycon dress that reaches just above your knees. The spaghetti straps work to hold your bust in place, a gold necklace dangling delicately above the curves of your breasts. You push your freshly curled hair onto your shoulders, luscious locks framing your face perfectly. White lace-up sneakers adorn your feet, your ankle bracelet glimmering as you walk into the living room.

Matt can’t keep his eyes off of, every aspect of your being pulling him in and putting him in a trance. Your mom notices Matt’s inability to hide his attraction for you, “her eyes are up here!” His face goes beet red, eyes immediately darting up to your face.

You roll your eyes before sending Matt an apologetic smile, “Ya nos vamos, Ma.”

[translation: “We’re leaving, Ma.”]

“Bueno, mi niña. Pórtate bien,” she warns, bringing you in for a strong, warm embrace. Your mom’s change in behavior is so quick it gives Matt whiplash, but he can’t blame her for being standoffish with him. He understands that it’s her mother bear nature.

[translation: “Okay, babygirl. Be good.”]

You kiss your mom on the cheek, your red lipstick staining her face. You turn to Matt with a big, toothy smile sprawled onto your face. “You ready?” you ask, taking his hand in yours as you guide him outside. He nods and hums in response, squeezing your hand as he trails behind you in a lovesick daze. Your ass jiggles with each step and Matt wonders how he ever got so lucky.

“Sorry for taking so long,” you apologize once you’re in the car, getting situated in the passenger seat. “No problem. You look really beautiful,” he replies, starting the car and doing another once over on your body. You lean over the center console with puckered lips, “kiss?” He happily obliges, your red lipstick instantly transferring onto him. His pants are becoming tighter by the second and you notice it right away. Your relationship is still in its infancy, so even this has you blushing.

“Was my mom nice?”

“Mm yeah, some like that,” he replies with a chuckle, adjusting his pants and beginning the drive to your destination. You know he’s lying, but you’re grateful that he’s courteous enough to put up with your mom’s attitude.

“Just wait till you meet my dad and my siblings. They’re not as bad,” you say, the hum of the car engine and the low music in the background creating a calm atmosphere.

“Can’t wait,” he laughs, and although he’s nervous for when that day finally comes, he’s actually excited to become a constant presence in your life. It might be too early to say it, but he’s definitely falling in love with you, the tent in his pants making it obvious as ever.

—

A year has passed since that day and, as expected, your mom has warmed up to Matt. They aren’t super close yet, but she definitely sees him in a different light. She can tell that he truly cares for you and that what you two share is real, but the real test comes when Matt meets your dad.

Your dad works a lot, the manual labor taking a toll on his body that puts him to sleep as soon as he gets home. So, even if your dad is home when Matt’s around, he’s usually asleep or resting in his room.

Matt was nervous when he met your mom, but he’s TERRIFIED to meet your dad. There are so many factors to take into consideration; the language barrier, the cultural dissonance, the fact that he’s your literal dad! It doesn’t help that your siblings are gonna be there too, all of it makes Matt tremble with unease. But he’s been invited to your family’s cookout so he can no longer postpone it.

It’s a sunny Saturday afternoon. The weather is nice, it’s not too cold or too hot. It’s the perfect day for a cookout, and Matt should feel excited, but he doesn’t. Sweaty hands grip the steering wheel as he anxiously drives to your house. Chris and Nick are being dragged along as moral support, but unlike Matt, they’re not nervous.

“Maybe I shouldn’t have brought you guys. I don’t even think they know I’m a triplet,” Matt’s words are coming out a mile a minute as he places the car in park outside your house. The panic is starting to set, and from the looks of it they’re the first ones here. Usually being on time would make Matt proud, but this just means there will be less people to hide behind.

“Dude, it’s gonna be fine. Plus, maybe Y/n has a cute cousin or something and we can be like brother in laws,” Chris is only half-joking. “Gross,” Nick grimaces, hopping off the car and beginning the short walk to your front door. Chris laughs, copying Nick’s actions and following closely behind.

That just leaves Matt. He’s glued to the front seat, mind racing uncontrollably. If he’s going to do this, it needs to be quick and painless or he’ll just psych himself out. He takes one deep breath in and out, unbuckling himself with such fervor that the seatbelt slaps the door. Once he steps out of the car, he takes a second to anchor himself before jogging to catch up to his brothers, who are already ringing your doorbell.

Three minutes pass and no one has opened the door, so Nick rings the doorbell again. “Allí voy, allí voy!” a voice shouts from inside, the door swinging open aggressively to reveal your little sister.

[translation: “I’m going, I’m going!”]

“Oh it’s just you,” she deadpans, moving aside so they can walk in. She slams the door shut, pushing past the stunned trio until she’s at the foot of the stairs. “Y/n’s upstairs,” she says, waving towards the staircase haphazardly.

“Y/N! YOUR BOYFRIENDS ARE HERE!” she shouts up the stairs, the loud outburst taking the triplets by surprise.

Your sister is a good 4 years younger and the complete opposite of you. She’s a thin tomboy, wearing an outfit so oversized that she’s drowning in fabric. Her style directly resembles Chris’s, chunky sneakers adorning her feet and a backwards hat resting atop her long, curly hair. A long gold chain that she stole from your older brother hangs from her neck, swaying back and forth as she shifts her weight from one foot to the other. Her makeup is nicely done and her glossy lips are resting in a smirk, she loved embarrassing you.

“Stop yelling, pendeja!” you shout back, head peering from your doorway. Your sister shoots you an unbothered shrug, turning on her heels and disappearing into the backyard. You descend the stairs, immediately hugging Matt and planting a fat kiss on his lips. Within seconds his lips are the same color as yours, your cherry lipgloss tasting all too familiar.

[translation: pendeja- dumbass (feminine)]

“You guys are early,” you chuckle, pulling away from Matt to greet the other two. “You can blame Matt for that,” Nick says, the four of you walking outside to the backyard patio. The setup is simple but nice, rows of foldable chairs and tables lining the grassy lawn. Coolers are up against the walls of the house, each one filled to the brim with soda, juice pouches, and alcohol.

As Matt is surveying the area, he sees your dad, or at least he thinks he does. A tall, muscular man is working the grill. His shiny, bald head reflects the sun and his tattoos are on full display past the sleeves of his ribbed cotton tank top.

Matt grabs your hand, pulling you back slightly, “Is that your dad?” His voice is hushed, afraid to be heard accidentally.

You follow his gaze, “What? No. That’s my brother.”

An audible sigh of relief escapes Matt, and you instantly clock it, “Don’t worry, babe. Everyone’s gonna love you.” The reassuring words momentarily calm his nerves.

Your older brother’s boisterous voice breaks the moment, “Y/n, go get the rest of the carne from the kitchen!” He’s pinching carne asada, elote, and cebolla off of the grill with long metal tongs, stacking it neatly on a metal tray.

[translation: carne- meat, carne asada- grilled meat, elote- corn, cebolla- onion]

Chris is the first to approach your brother, his friendly nature making it easy for him to talk to new people,“Dude, that smells good!”

Your brother is very kind, his scary appearance completely juxtaposing his hospitable personality. He’s wearing baggy jean shorts and black air forces with a matching gold chain and bracelet. The black sunglasses that rest on his face make him look unapproachable, but the warm smile he offers Nick and Chris makes up for it.

“I’ll be right back, okay?” you quickly peck Matt’s cheek, once again staining his face with your lipstick. Matt hums in response, joining the rest of the men around the grill.

“I feel like I’m seeing triple. I didn’t even know there was three of y’all,” your brother jokes, offering them each a firm handshake. Even though they’ve heard the joke millions of times before the triplets laugh.

“Yeah, we get that a lot,” Nick laughs.

“Bet you do. Which of you is dating my sister, though?” your brother asks, but he knows the answer; the red kiss on Matt’s cheek is a dead giveaway.

“That would be this lucky guy,” Nick replies, shaking Matt’s shoulders playfully. Matt’s cheeks burn a bright red and he can’t stop himself from smiling, he truly was lucky. “If the red lipstick on his face doesn’t tell you, then his smile surely will,” Chris chimes in, his finger smudging the makeup on Matt’s face.

Your brother laughs, “Yeah you might wanna wipe that off before el jefe gets back.”

[translation: el jefe- the boss (masculine, a nickname commonly used when referencing one’s father)]

“Oh shit,” Matt mutters, scrambling for a nearby napkin and rubbing it along his face feverishly.

—

An hour has passed and no one else has arrived yet, I guess the triplets didn’t get the memo that Hispanics are almost always fashionably late. Your brother is still working the grill, immersed in an entertaining conversation with Nick about God knows what. Chris, on the other hand, is playing soccer with your sister. He keeps either kicking the ball over the fence or missing it completely, his clumsy actions make your sister laugh uncontrollably.

You sit with Matt at one of the many tables, hands intertwined as you both anxiously await your parents arrival. “He should be back by now,” you mumble, a restless leg bouncing up and down. You knew Matt would make a good first impression on your dad, but you were still nervous.

It’s almost like you summoned him, the familiar sound of your dad’s pickup truck ringing in your ears as he pulls into the driveway. “Is that him?” Matt asks, grip tightening on your palms. “Yeah that’s him. Don’t be nervous, my dad is nice,” you reply, but you’re equally as anxious.

Your dad’s first words do nothing to help your case, you’re just glad Matt can’t understand them, “Vengan a ayudar, huevones!”

[translation: “Come help, lazies!”]

“Lemme go help, you stay here. Okay?”

“No, I’m coming with you.”

“Actually yeah, good idea.”

Matt follows you to the front yard, he’s so beyond nervous that his hands are practically dripping with sweat. Your dad senses Matt’s presence immediately, “Y este pinche güey que?”

[translation: “Who’s this fucking guy?”]

“Pa! No seas feo!” you exclaim, but your dad just rolls his eyes and silently instructs you to unload the truck. He bought more alcohol for the party, because when you’re Hispanic you can never have enough.

[translation: “Pa! Don’t be ugly!”]

“Es tu novio o que?” your dad asks, grunting as he picks up two cases of beer. He rests them on his shoulders with ease, he’s so strong that it intimidates Matt. “Yes, dad. He’s my boyfriend,” you reply, playfully rolling your eyes.

[translation: “Is he your boyfriend or what?”]

Your dad, much like your brother, is also bald. The greatest differences between the two men are the wrinkles that crease near your dad’s eyes when he smiles, his long bushy beard, and his protruding beer belly. “Nice to meet you,” your dad finally directs his attention towards Matt, offering him a genuine smile as his thick accent butchers the words.

“Nice to meet you too, sir,” Matt replies, picking up a case of alcohol as to make himself useful. Your dad can tell that Matt’s nervous, and even though he doesn’t like the idea of you dating, he decides to take it easy on him. He’s heard stories about Matt from your mom and by the way you look at him, your dad knows he’s the one.

As your dad enters the backyard, absolutely shocked to see Chris and Nick. Never in his life has he met a twin, let alone triplets, “Ay güey! Hay tres? No chingues, creo que me mareé.” Everyone, except for the triplets who have no idea what’s going on, laughs at your dad’s statement.

[translation: “Oh shit! There’s three? Fuck, I think I just got dizzy.”]

“I think he likes you,” you shrug, a sly smile playing on your face. Matt suddenly feels confident, all the nerves washing away.

—

As the hours pass, the party becomes less innocent as everyone becomes more and more inebriated. Matt’s chatting with some of your uncles and cousins, a cold beer resting in his hands. He’s been nursing the same bottle all night, only sipping from it occasionally.

You’re on the opposite end of the lawn, sitting at a table with your chismosa cousin. “Your man is so handsome, prima. If you find another one like that, send him my way.”

[translation: chismosa- gossiper (feminine), prima- cousin (feminine)]

“He does have a brother,” you joke, eyes still trained on Matt. You needed to get him alone in the house, away from prying eyes.

You could think of so many actual reasons you needed him right now, though. First, he was being such a gentleman with your family. He introduced himself and made small talk despite the evident language barrier. Secondly, when you served him a plate, he finished it faster than you’ve ever seen him eat anything. Then, when he got up for seconds, he moaned as the delicious flavors melted in his mouth.

Everyone loved him, and for whatever reason that turned you on. The longer you looked at him, the wetter you became. You’re clenching your thighs together, the sheer thought of him making you squirm. Before you know it, you’re excusing yourself from your cousin and walking up to Matt with a random excuse as to why you need him inside.

“Hey is everything okay?” Matt whispers, hands resting on your hips. His head is crooked down towards you, lips capturing yours briefly before resting his forehead against yours. “Yeah, just missed you,” your breathy words fan his lips as you place a chaste kiss on the corner of his mouth and travel them down his neck.

Although he welcomes the feeling, you’re both standing in the kitchen and if anyone were to walk in they’d catch the intimate moment. That’s the last thing he wanted, especially not after making a good first impression, “not here, baby.”

You pout, completely retracting yourself from Matt, “okay.”

“No, wait. I said not here,” he pulls you back in as he looks around the house in search of another secluded area, not wanting to completely abandon your touch.

“Then where?” your voice is sultry and inviting.

“Outside?” it’s the first thing that comes to Matt’s mind, and the suggestion breaks you from the mood.

“Outside, Matt? Really? Like what, like a dog?” you have a dumbfounded look on your face, almost like you can’t believe he even suggested it.

“No, like, in my car,” he dangles the keys in front of your face before pulling you back in for a heated kiss.

The kiss seems to convince you because he’s successfully leading you to his car. The street is dark, only illuminated by a few street lamps, but you find it with ease.

You fumble into the backseat, Matt following behind you giddily. “We have to be quick, okay?” you whisper, pulling Matt in for another kiss by the collar.

“You know I like taking my time with my girl,” you can hear the smirk in his voice, a playful scoff falling from your lips. You scoot further into the back seat, making room for Matt as he situates himself between your legs.

“Did I tell you how beautiful you look today?” he brushes a stray curl away from your face, a gentle hand caressing your cheek. “Hmm yes, but I could hear it again,” you turn your face, kissing his palm.

“You look beautiful today,” he murmurs, leaning in for a kiss. You mould into each other, your lips fitting perfectly against his. Matt grinds himself down on you, momentarily breaking from you long enough for you to feather kisses along his neck.

With each kiss comes an affirmation, “I’m. So. Proud. Of. You.” It’s too dark to see, but you’re leaving lipstick marks all over him. The praises send blood rushing to his dick as you continue, “You did so good, papi. Just like I knew you would.”

[translation: papi- daddy (bear with me ppl)]

“Yeah? How good?” he eggs you on, relishing in all your sweet words. His hands push your dress up, the fabric scrunching up around your hips to reveal the red lace panties you wore underneath. Matt swears he’s in heaven.

“You did perfect…” your words trail off as you watch Matt remove your underwear in a daze. “How about you show me how good I did?” he grabs your waist, flipping you both over so you’re on top. You let out an excited squeal, your bare cunt coming in contact with his rough denim jeans. His dick is straining against the fabric, begging for release.

You grind onto his clothed penis, one hand resting on his chest as the other pushes your hair out of your face. Matt’s hands instinctively find your hips, a firm grip guiding your swiveling motions.

“Tell me how you want me, baby.”

“Ride me?”

As soon as he says it, you’re wiggling down onto his thighs and unbuckling his pants. Your fingers dance along his erection, teasingly tracing it. Matt bites his lip at the sight, “Please don’t tease.”

“So polite,” you giggle, finally tugging his pants down. His dick slaps against his stomach, the swollen tip already dripping with precum. Your thumb runs across the tip, spreading the lubrication along his shaft.

Matt’s a whimpering mess, propped onto his elbows to get a better view of you. When his hips subconsciously buck into your hand you decide to stop teasing and situate yourself above his crotch, dragging his penis along your wet folds before positioning it right at your entrance.

You’re going so slow, too slow, so Matt decides to take matters into his own hands. He grabs handfuls of your ass, pushing you down onto his dick with force. “Matt!” you gasp, the delicious stretch sending you into overdrive.

He doesn’t respond, instead he pushes and pulls your hips so that you’re bouncing on his cock. Your breasts are jiggling rhythmically, threatening to spill out of your dress. Animalistic grunts fill the car as Matt watches your pussy wrap around him, his jaw is slack and his eyebrows are furrowed in pleasure. Your soft whimpers and moans motivate him to keep going.

“You like that?” The car is rocking with the intensity of your movements, windows becoming foggier and foggier with each breathy moan that escapes your lips.

“Yes!” your voice is high pitched and squeaky, the pleasure choking you up. “Use your words, pretty girl,” he grunts, feeling the familiar wave of pleasure approaching.

“It’s so good, papi. So, so, so good,” you babble, struggling to formulate coherent sentences. Your pussy is fluttering around him, the sensation bringing Matt closer to his breaking point.

“Fuck! I’m gonna cum,” he whimpers, large hands squeezing the skin around your hips so hard that it was sure to bruise. You place loving kisses all over his face, especially on his cheeks and the corners of his mouth.

“I love you,” you moan, chanting his name again and again right after. He’s thrusting up into you feverishly, his pace faltering slightly as you both near your climax. “I love you too, princess. So much,” his voice is strained, strong arms wrapping around your waist and holding you in place as he shoots his warm load into you. His affirmations send you into a state of euphoria as your orgasm washes over you.

He’s peppering kissing all over your chest, whimpers escaping his lips as he comes down from his high. You delicately push his hair off of his sweaty forehead, admiring him as he continues his gentle attack on your chest.

“We should probably get back, babe. They’ll be wondering where we are,” you whisper, but he doesn’t want to let go. He wants to stay like this with you forever.

“Let me enjoy this a little longer,” he murmurs, hooded eyes finally looking up at you. Your lipstick is smudged all over your mouth. “Aww baby, your lipstick is all messed up. You look so cute,” he laughs, attempting to wipe some it off but failing.

He shifts slightly, the streetlights briefly managing to illuminate his handsome face. Your kiss marks are all over, a clear visual representation of how much you love him.

“You’re wearing more of it than I am,” you joke, earning yourself a playful slap on the ass.

—

MASTERLIST

A/n: clearly I couldn’t just write a smut right? Lmaoooo idk I had all the characters in my brain & it couldn’t just be smut 😭 hope u enjoy

This is so different from anything I’ve written before so lmk how yall like it & if you enjoy having Spanish in stories w/ the translations in the story💃🏻 also don’t kill me for using papi, i’d gladly call my man papi any day 😋

-L.A.M.B👼🏻💗

—

taglist: @nicksmainbitch @sturniololovers @mayhem-72 @worldlxvlys @gnxosblog @meg-sturniolo @creamoncreamoncream2 @mattnchrisworld @sanyi5 @lustfulslxt @whicked-hazlatwhore @tworosesblackthorn @mxqdii @fawned01 @junnniiieee07 @sturniolololover @missriddle03

note: if you want to be tagged in my fanfic related posts, you can access my TAGLIST and comment 💐

[lottiesdolly]

snip snip

༄ jinx x reader

Her workshop smells like oil, smoke, and sweat, the same as always. The walls are chaos, wires like veins, bombs half-assembled on every surface. You step over a landmine-shaped plush toy and hear the click of a lighter before you see her.

Jinx is perched on her workbench, boots dangling, chewing a matchstick between her teeth. Hair in loose pigtails, grease on her cheek.

She grins when she sees you. “Took you long enough.”

“Had to dodge half a gang war to get here.” you huff.

She slides off the bench. “Poor baby.” A gloved hand cups your jaw. “You want a reward?”

You’re about to answer when she shoves you gently, playfully back against the wall. Her mouth crashes into yours, all tongue and teeth. Her hands are already under your shirt, dragging it up, nails raking across your ribs.

“Fuck,” you breathe, barely keeping up. “You missed me that much?”

Jinx smirks, eyes gleaming. “Missed owning you.”

She spins you around, yanking your hands behind your back, and before you can ask, she’s looping her belt around your wrists.

You freeze. “Jinx—”

“Don’t move,” she purrs, breath hot against your ear. “Not until I say.”

You nod.

She pushes you to your knees.

Her fingers tangle in your hair, dragging your face up to look at her. Her expression softens, and she bites her lip. “Fuck, you look pretty like this.”

And then she’s on you.

Jinx drops to her knees too, yanks your pants down like she’s been waiting weeks for. Her mouth finds you fast, tongue merciless.

She holds your hips down, mouth working you over. You whimper, hips twitching, and she pulls back just enough to reprimand you, “I said. Don’t. Move.”

She goes right back in, tongue circling, sucking, devouring your clit.

You’re already close. Too close.

But Jinx knows. Of course she does.

She pulls away right before you tip over.

You almost cry out. “Jinx—”

She laughs, low and dirty. “Not yet.”

She stands, boots still on, straddling your lap as she unhooks her belt from your wrists. The second you’re free, she grabs your wrists and shoves them above your head. “Keep ‘em there,” she warns.

You obey.

Jinx grinds against you through her pants, breath hitching, pupils blown. She’s just as desperate, just as needy, but she wants to watch you squirm first.

When she finally sheds her pants, she aligns her cunt with yours, it’s rough and fast. No buildup. Just heat and friction and breathless curses as she grinds against you, her hands gripping your shoulders hard enough to bruise.

“You’re mine,” she gasps. “Say it.”

“You’re mine too,” you whisper, voice broken. “Always.”

That does it. Her rhythm stutters. Her mouth crashes into yours, and you two finish together.

[namgyunation]

going to the mall

ok, alive!team thanos au where they get out of the games and all go to the mall together and nobody murders each other...... :]

thanos insisted on picking everyone up (even though se-mi wanted to just meet them there), and is a reckless driver. he has the windows all the way down and his music on max volume. nam-gyu's in the passenger seat, and min-su's squished in the back between se-mi and gyeong-su, getting jostled around. he's terrified

se-mi buys something in the food court; nam-gyu and thanos say they're not hungry, but then when they lean in for a bite, they take the most heinous chomp ever (thanos asked, nam-gyu just took one) and then she beats the shit out of them

se-mi's only there for min-su and often walks in front of the rest of them, trying to pretend like she doesn't know them

se-mi and nam-gyu accidentally show up in eerily matching outfits (i think they'd have a similar sense of style), and they both pretend like it doesn't bother them

thanos constantly steps out to go to the bathroom bc he's hitting his vape

thanos and nam-gyu force min-su to try on clothes and dress him up. they try to force him to buy the fits they put together for him, and when he politely declines, thanos just buys it for him anyway and makes him put it on. he does it because he feels guilty over someone else spending money on him (the fit looks... stupid as hell </3)

gyeong-su insists on holding all of thanos's shopping bags even though he didn't ask him to. he's also constantly taking selfies with everyone (namely, thanos) to brag about it on his socials later

when they're looking in a store with CDs and records, nam-gyu and se-mi end up in the same section, and they're horrified to find out that they like a lot of the same bands. they both ask each other to 'name 3 songs' at the same time

later, they're in a video game store and find out that they have a similar taste in video games as well. se-mi's looking at a specific title when nam-gyu scoffs, saying that that one is shit and the old version was better. they proceed to have a heated discussion over each other's video game opinions

min-su lags behind and wanders somewhere else for like. a couple minutes. he's fine. but thanos insists on going to the help desk and paging him over the intercom, making it sound like he's their lost child

thanos buys little pretzel dogs and then randomly starts throwing them at the others, telling them to 'catch'. he only stops when se-mi yells at him for getting grease on her jeans

headcanon that se-mi likes cute things, including little keychains. she buys a blind box from a small shop, and everyone else does too, just for the fun of it, though she doesn't ask them to. they all open theirs to find out which plushie keychain they got. gyeong-su makes a comment about how "they're all matching" (he lowkey only says this so thanos will acknowledge it and he can now say that he's matching with his idol)

nam-gyu pretends that he doesn't care about the blind box when he buys it and tells himself he's only doing it because everyone else is, but when he opens his, he finds that he was secretly hoping for a specific one and got the one that he was hoping he wouldn't get. when he looks over at what everyone else got, he realizes that se-mi got the one he wants. he stares at it dangling from her belt loop (she notices) until she turns around, rolling her eyes before she takes hers off and tosses it at him and rips his out of his pocket. turns out, she secretly wanted the one that he got, too. "there, since you're too shy to ask me."

they all go home in the thanos-mobile, and he says they should all do this again sometime. gyeong-su is the only one who enthusiastically agrees, but everyone had a good time, se-mi included (though she won't say it out loud)

thanos hangs his keychain on his rearview mirror, gyeong-su puts his on his backpack, se-mi's alternates between her purse and her belt loop (it's in a protective clear bag), min-su's stays by his desk, and nam-gyu's gets stuffed in the bottom of his pocket or bag (somewhere hidden) when he can convince himself to give a fuck. he doesn't like to acknowledge or think about why he does it (it lowkey gets a little grimey from being thrown around so much. he secretly takes care of it and washes it from time to time)

projecting my own interests onto thanos team yayyyyyyyy. also that one picture of se-mi and nam-gyu out of character where he has her nose piercing on makes me want to push my reluctant se-mi and nam-gyu friendship agenda........

[reidsrambles]

Something More and Second Chances

Chapter 1

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Fem!Reader // Second chance

Description: You're stunned when your former friends with benefits shows up at your new job—and nearly a decade after you ghosted him. It turns out, he works in the same building, and he definitely hasn't forgotten about you. Will your apologies be enough? What happens if he does forgive you? Does time truly heal all wounds? (Content/Warnings below the cut)

Content/Warnings: [18+ MDNI], smut, friends with benefits, oral sex (F receiving), PIV sex, condomless sex, IUD birth control, mention of abortion (in the context of being on the same page prior to sex), riding, soft dom M, praise kink F.

This fic is quite emotionally heavy, and both Spencer and Reader delve deep into past traumas. None is current. If any of these topics may be triggering or upsetting to you, please skip this one: child abuse, child abandonment, attachment issues, foster care, adoption, CPS, bullying, trust issues, mental health issues, misunderstandings, ghosting, and Reader mentions that she possibly committed emotional infidelity in the past, thinking about Spencer while with another partner.

A/N: This is my (very late) fic for @imagining-in-the-margins's FWB challenge! Life's been a bit crazy lately. Your girl now has a boyfriend who takes up a lot of her time. 🥹👉👈

Names used: Baby, good girl

Words (this chapter): 1,706

Words (total): 12,462

There’s only one person you had hoped to never face again in this lifetime, and he’s standing a mere twenty feet in front of you.

You hear him before you see him. His laugh echoes off the walls of the large, airy library, and the normal hushed murmur goes silent in response. Working the front desk today, you have nowhere to hide. 

A flush sweeps across his cheeks as he scans the room. A few people at tables nearby lift their heads but lower them just as quickly. Nobody can be bothered to care. Nobody except you.

As you wait for his gaze to fall upon your face, time lags to a snail’s pace. An inescapable cataclysm of fate. 

This must be punishment for some unspeakable crime committed in a past lifetime. Or maybe this is just karma biting you in the ass? It has to be. How else could he be here? This place is locked down like Fort Knox. 

He bounces on his feet, looking at the floor. Left, right, left, right. He was never that good at staying still, especially when nervous. An FBI badge dangling from his belt loop catches your attention as he shifts. A firearm is holstered at his hip on the other side of his body.

He belongs here. 

“Okay, Garcia. Well, I just got down here, so I’ll call you back once I find it,” he says quietly. 

Realization crosses his face as soon as his eyes land on you. The thump of the kick drum in your chest rattles your body, and everything in your peripheral fades until all that exists is him.

He presses his lips together and slides his cell phone into his pocket.

The last time you saw those lips, you traced the crease of his dimple with your finger, without hurry. Early morning sun. His sleepy smile. He was so happy. The soft, thin cotton bed sheet draped over your naked bodies, and Spencer looked at you like you were his everything; his worshipping stare turned you translucent. 

The light caught his face, and the blue-green of his eyes glistened with an auric sheen. As you watched the dance of color, a vice grip tightened around your rib cage. In that one brief moment, something clicked within you. 

How hadn’t you seen it before? 

A newfound clarity painted him maroon. A flag waved in warning. That was the morning you left without another word. That was the morning you had to accept that, for his sake and yours, you’d never be able to see Spencer Reid again.

This has to be some sick joke. 

You snap out of your daze and look at the new Academy recruit standing in front of the desk, still patiently waiting for an answer to his question. “I’m so sorry about that. I had completely lost my train of thought,” you laugh, trying to maintain your professionalism. 

“So, on the lower level,” you continue briskly, “is the law library. That’s where you’ll find law books, periodicals, and any government documents. Those have to be used in-library, though, and you can’t check them out. Older, more sensitive documents—and anything requiring special authorization—are kept in climate-controlled, locked storage, so you’d have to inquire with one of us regarding any of those items. The 2nd floor is where we keep any books designated for leisure reading. Other than that, if you need help to locate anything, you can come ask me or any of my colleagues.” 

Wow. Practicing that little spiel in the mirror like the dweeb you are did actually help.

You beam a smile at the kid, no older than his early-20s. To your relief, he thanks you and walks away. 

You don’t have to wonder if Spencer recognizes you. He hasn’t looked away yet.

The library’s front desk is a stocky, rectangular enclosure, dwarfed by the grandeur of the sunlight-soaked atrium. The large skylights battle it out with the building’s air-conditioning, and even though it’s a cool fall day, you have to continuously blot the dampness from your forehead to save your makeup. Suddenly, you’re far too warm for your usual blazer, though. You stand and drape the jacket over your office chair.

Still warm as an oven, you pass behind your coworker, Sarah, the other librarian working the front desk with you today, and place a hand on her shoulder.

“I’m going to be right back. Can you cover for me for a few?” you whisper. 

“Only if you cover for me later so I can get an extra smoke break in,” she says, not bothering to look away from the email she’s writing.

You shake your head. “Sure, whatever. Fine.” 

A half door built-in to the large, rectangular desk is all that separates you from the rest of the library. You walk, but Spencer remains parked until you look at him, finally acknowledging him. You jerk your head to the side, gesturing for him to follow you, and his feet finally start. 

Ironically, you met Spencer in a library. Loving parents funded your English Lit degree and living expenses—not that you ever lived anything but frugally. All through undergrad, you worked in the university’s library, pushing your little book cart around and putting things back where they belonged. All your paychecks went straight into a savings account. Your parents would eventually tire of you, and you’d be left high and dry, you’d assumed, though you never let that thought escape your subconscious.

“Who’s the lanky nerd in the corner?” your new 18-year-old, first-year coworker whispered far too loudly. She had a bad habit of being extremely blunt, you’d quickly learned. 

“I don’t know,” you shrug. “He’s been here most days either working or reading. Doesn’t seem to have any friends. Joann said he’s some freaky genius on his 3rd PhD, but he always puts his own books back, so I’ve never had to deal with him.” You grabbed another book and returned it to its home on the shelf, hoping that if you didn’t look her way, she’d drop the conversation. Quietly escaping into your own thoughts while shelving was your respite. It was serenity… Until she showed up.

“Hey, freaky genius guy,” she whisper-yelled, somehow getting his attention, “my coworker thinks you’re cute!” 

Yeah, she only lasted two weeks in that position before the librarians had enough of her antics.

You mouthed an angry and confused “What the fuck?” to her before going to apologize. He was so awkward, but he did try to keep the conversation going. An enigma. Maybe the loner didn’t want to be so lonely? In regular chats, you learned a bit more about the guy. Though, on the surface, you had very little in common, you and Spencer ended up being better matched than previously thought, and you became fast friends. 

The conversation shifted from classic literature to niche science topics that shouldn’t have interested you, but his passion was infectious enough to capture you. He taught you how to play chess, and you’d sneak over to his table mid-shift to get a few turns in at a time. You always lost to him, but you liked the challenge and started skimming chess books at the library for different plays. One day, he related something in the conversation to Star Wars. When you admitted to never having seen any of them, it led to the first of many movie nights at your place. He showed up with his personal copy of A New Hope and a big bag of popcorn.  

Those horrid two weeks of babysitting the coworker were good for something, at least. It was strange, but nice, to have a friend.

Beep, the card reader chimes. The green light flashes, and you push into an empty conference room of the library. Spencer follows you inside, putting a solid five-feet of distance between you.

“Hi,” is all you say. The forced chirpiness of your customer service voice is on its last legs, only a single word into this conversation. A trip to the gynecologist for a pap smear would be more fun than a conversation with a man whose heart you smashed into a million pieces like a fucking coward. 

Spencer gestures to the badge on your lanyard with a flick of his head. “You, uh—work here?”

Taking the badge between your fingers, you quickly examine it. Your mugshot-esque headshot and the required stone-cold expression are in direct contrast to the radiant smile and cheery disposition you paint on while at work. You’ve seen FBI badges on TV and in the movies, and even though yours signifies you belong to the Library and Information Services department, it still feels odd to be wearing it.

“I do, yeah. Just started two weeks ago, actually.”

He nods, rocking back and forth on his heels. Your performative amiability slips from your grasp. False pleasantries won’t work with Spencer.

“Look,” you add, “we don’t have to interact after this, if you don’t want to. One of the other librarians can help you or check you out when you stop by, if that makes you more comfortable.”

“You’re a librarian?” he asks; less like a question and more like a stunning realization. 

After you left Spencer’s apartment a decade ago, you packed up the essentials and drove eight hours home. You took leave from school, but you’re sure classmates and acquaintance assumed that you dropped out, and with only a few months left of your degree. You didn’t just cut contact with Spencer; You cut contact with everyone. 

“No,” he continues, “it’s not that. It’s just… I have so much I want to say and no idea how to say it all. I obviously wasn’t expecting to run into you.”

You keep your focus directed at the sting of your nails pressing into your palm as you attempt to steady your breathing. Work isn’t an ideal place to be crying, attempting to apologize for all the pain you caused. 

“Do you want to grab a coffee sometime and talk?” you ask sheepishly. 

“I happen to be free tonight after work, if that’s good for you?”

“Yeah, I think I can make that work,” you nod, flashing him a shy smile.

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3

AO3 | Tumblr | Masterlist

[lilacella]

LESBIAN PRONGSFOOT

I don't have any other ideas other than that... Maybe like a classic meet ugly (idk if that's the right term) where they meet in the worst possible way??? But then they're flirty 🥰

Ohhh yes my babies!! Okay, you just need to keep in mind that in my head Sirius always turns into a femme in lesibian prongsfoot settings (i know this is confusing but she contains multitudes! (She's still very tall and scary though))

I hope this is coherent, I am still getting back into the groove of writing 😅

send me prongsfoot asks

Lesbian Prongsfoot meeting in the park

"Catch!," James yelled before hurling the softball towards Remus, sending it through the air with a sharp swish.

James was an ardent and talented softball player. She had been in school and now continued on the team of her university. And as a youth trainer she was used to train with people that had limited hand-eye coordination.

James also knew Remus well. They had been friends since year 7 and the scrawny girl had never been particularly good at P.E.

So in hindsight James should have known that this was a bad idea. She shouldn't have thrown this hard. She should have known Remus had no aim with a bat. She should have expected her to not even try to hit it. She should have anticipated the ball whirring past her ducked head and shooting off the park lawn and straight towards -

Oh no!

"Watch out!," she warned, but the ball was faster than the sound of her voice. Or the reaction speed of the - exceptionally pretty - young woman, who only managed to turn her head before the ball hit her straight into her - wonderfully shaped - nose.

"Fuck," James cursed under her breath and sprinted towards her.

Remus turned around and made a concerned noise as she saw the now disgruntled looking woman wiping her nose, spilled coffee dripping off her chest and soaking her top.

Well, at least it was black. So no stains, James thought as she reached the path with an apology on her lips - before she was momentarily stopped in her tracks by the smouldering glare the woman had directed towards her.

She had stunning grey eyes. Stunning eyes and stunning long, shiny hair, stunning long legs - and an expression like she wanted to disintegrate James into bits. Coincidentally all of the qualities James was looking for in a woman...

James let out a nervous laugh. "Ah, I'm... I'm terribly sorry Miss!"

"Miss?," the woman scoffed.

"Yeah?," James' eyes wandered down to her coffee-drenched cleavage. "Or are you married?" She looked back up with her most charming smile.

The woman snorted but James could see the hint of a smile tugging at the corners of her lips.

"I'm James!"

"Amazing," the woman said; her tone suggesting that she wasn’t amazed at all.

James cleared her throat. She wasn't used to her charms not working.

"You are - Uhm - Sorry 'bout your coffee! Let me - ," she pulled a tissue out of her pocket.

The woman opened her hand to take it but James noticed a bit too late, her hand already en route towards the woman's chest to clean off the coffe stains with some ineffective wipes. James could feel her stare at the back of her lowered head.

Slowly she looked up, meeting the woman's bemused expression.

"Ah, sorry I think that shirt needs a wash. But I could buy you a new coffee!," she suggested with another flashing smile, ruffling the back of her hair with her free hand.

"Is that the way you usually hit on people? Throw balls at them, touch their breasts and then invite them for coffee?"

"I didn't - ! I -," James sheepishly stuffed the crumpled tissue back into her pocket. "I didn't mean to touch them! I was just trying... Sorry."

James shoved her hands into the pockets of her jeans. This really wasn't going well. Why had she even tried to hit on that girl?! She was probably already taken! Or straight! Though she didn't seem very straight with her black, baggy cargo pants and her keys dangling from that pink carabiner on her belt loop... And James' gaydar had never let her down. But neither had her charms...

Oh well, maybe she should just go.

Mumbling another apology she picked up the ball and turned back towards Remus who was still standing akwardly in the middle of the lawn, bat hanging limply by her side, watching them like a mouse filled with the existential worries of mankind.

"You can buy me a coffee next week."

James spun back around on her heels. The woman eyed her with an expression that James couldn't quite read.

"Just bring it to Hardware Design class on tuesday" - after a pause in which she assessed James' confused expression, she continued - "I've been sitting behind you for the past semester, Potter. Your designs look - not too bad." The smirk now spread over the entirety of her face. James felt like the skies had opened to reveal the gates of heaven.

"Oh! You do?! Next week then! Alright, will bring it!" James saluted with a wide grin. "How do you take it, " - she picked up the empty fallen cup from the path - "Sirius?"

Sirius pressed her lips together to hide her smile. "Don't you think that's a bit forward to ask yet?"

James felt her cheeks flush as she watched Sirius readjust her bag on her shoulder and push her hair back, before turning to continue her path.

"I meant the coffee!," James called after her, waving the empty cup.

Sirius threw her a grin over her shoulder. "I know. See you on tuesday! And get oat milk!"

"Oat milk," James repeated under her breath as she watched Sirius walk away, her brain still sizzling from the short conversation. Something clicked back into place.

"Wait." She started running after her. "Wait! Oi, what do you mean my designs look not too bad? I've been acing that module! Sirius!"

[cynic-spirit]

The Hanging Glasses

Yn had a unique habit that Bucky found utterly captivating. When she wasn’t wearing her glasses, she would casually hang them on the waistband of her skirt. If she was wearing a dress, she’d slip them onto the belt or loop of the dress. It was a simple, almost unconscious gesture, yet it was something that made her distinctly Yn.

One evening at the club, Yn sat at a table, engrossed in a book. She took off her glasses and, in one fluid motion, hooked them onto the waistband of her skirt. The glasses dangled there, reflecting the soft ambient light of the club. Bucky watched from a distance, his heart fluttering at the sight.

There was something about the way she did it that was both casual and elegant. It wasn't a big, dramatic action, but a small, intimate detail that spoke volumes about her character. Yn’s effortless grace and unique mannerisms set her apart from everyone else.

Bucky often found himself anticipating this little moment. Whenever Yn was about to take off her glasses, he would unconsciously hold his breath, waiting to see her perform that familiar gesture. It was a small, yet profoundly personal ritual that he felt privileged to witness.

One evening, as they were seated in a quieter corner of the club, Yn looked up from her book, noticing Bucky’s gaze. She smiled softly, taking off her glasses and hooking them onto the belt of her dress. The movement was smooth, almost practiced, and Bucky felt his heart skip a beat.

He couldn't help but be entranced by the sight. The glasses, now hanging from her dress, seemed to accentuate her beauty even more. They swung slightly as she moved, a testament to her unique style and grace.Bucky's thoughts raced, "Damn, I never thought I’d envy a pair of glasses so much." The simple, intimate act of Yn hanging her glasses was a poignant reminder of her charm and the little quirks that made her so endearing to him.

Yn caught Bucky staring and tilted her head curiously. "What is it?" she asked, her voice soft and melodic.

Bucky shook his head, a smile spreading across his face. "Nothing, doll. Just admiring you."

Yn blushed lightly, not fully understanding the depth of his admiration but appreciating it nonetheless. She returned to her book, the glasses hanging by her side, a small yet significant part of who she was.

Bucky leaned back in his chair, content. It was these little things that made him fall for Yn over and over again. Her unique quirks, her effortless elegance, and the way she could make his heart flutter with the simplest of gestures. To him, Yn was a constant source of fascination and affection, and he wouldn't have it any other way.

[carolmunson]

come get me, come love me (older!modern!eddie)

part four of who knows how many. orange colored sky set list surprise chapter, bitches. after we got rained out at the park, we finish our date at eddie's apartment in prospect heights, things heat up despite the storm. inspired by @loveshotzz older steve series: all i really want is you (see if you can spot the easter egg in this lil chapter.) tw: age gappy (reader is late 20s/early 30s, eddie is late 30s/early 40s), kissin', reader wears eddie's clothes but there's no body description songspiration: lovesick | banks

The door to the building is wedged between a restaurant and a pet store on a long street of bars and places to eat. You’ve been down here plenty of times, the ramen spot closer to the end of the street is to die for, and one of the ice cream shops is the best in this part of the city. He unhooks the carabiner from his belt loop and hurries the key into the heavy iron grate door before bumbling into the wooden one behind it.

“Whew!” he says when you both get inside, wiping some of the rain from his face. He leads you up the stairs to the second floor and down the small hallways. “Both doors are mine, but this is the front door,” he smiles, kicking his shoes off at the mat off to the side. You do the same. “Sorry if it’s a little messy,” he says, keys jingling in his hands while he opens the door, “Maid took the week off.”

You snort when you follow him inside but he looks at you over his shoulder, “No, seriously. It was her son’s birthday on Sunday so I told her not to come in. I try to keep it together for the most part, but – I don’t know, Sasha gives it a special somethin’ I’ve never been able to do on my own.” 

It’s a little stunning, his apartment. And when you think a little you mean a lot, a floor and a half with a metal spiral staircase that separates the open concept kitchen from the living room, dining room hybrid on the wall closest to the door. Oak floors that look newly shined, a big and deep sectional closing off the space so a dining room table and chairs could be placed on the other half of the room. Even the exposed brick on the back wall looks like it was just put in. His hand rests on your back while he guides you up to the next floor, the metal cold on your bare feet, shivering against the coolness of the central air whooshing through the place.

“If you want I can give you something comfy to wear and throw your stuff in the laundry,” he says when you make it to the top, opening the door, “Bathroom is just around the corner.”

“You have in-unit laundry?” you ask with a breathy sigh.

“I know, I’m so dreamy,” he winks, “You gonna take me up on my offer? There’s towels in there already.”

“Sure,” you take off the linen shirt and pass it to him, “I’ll be right out.” 

The bathroom is small-ish but well put together, it looks like he had it gutted and redone to be more modern, navy blue marbled tiles in the shower with gunmetal hardware – he has an eye, you figure. You open one of the cabinets to see dark blue towels folded and fluffy, waiting for you. The image that meets you in the mirror makes you frown when you wipe your face off – a wet rat with mascara running down her cheeks, blush and lipgloss long faded. You sigh and do your best to wash off your face with what you can, peeling off your wet layers and keeping them on the counter.

“Wanna swap?” he asks while knocking on the door. You ball up your wet clothes, holding the towel up against your chest while you open the door a sliver, easing them out into his waiting hand. You can’t see him but you hear his little snicker while he pushes the dry clothes into your open palm. “You got it?” he asks. “I got it,” you say, balancing them into the room and shutting the door quietly. “Let me know if you want something different,” he offers. You shake out the folded clothes, big black sweatpants and an old, soft band tee. Corroded Coffin spelled out in jagged letters on the front with a marionette dangling from a demonic clawed hand on the back. “This is fine,” you say, slipping them on, “What band is this?”  “It’s mine,” he says. You can hear his footsteps walking away from the bathroom while he talks, “Told you I was a rockstar!” 

When you’re fully changed into his sweats and shirt you emerge from the bathroom, padding out of the tiles in socked feet. You can hear him downstairs putting the leftover snacks into the fridge and freezer from the cooler. Like the sleuth you are, you take in what you can to learn more about him, inching down the short hallway and peeking into one of the rooms. His bedroom looks like a bachelor’s – not in the way a guy in their twenties would have it, but it’s clear he wants to semi impress whoever he’s taking home. You admire the coziness of the space: wrought iron bed frame – likely a vintage thrift find or thousands of dollars. Dark bedding with knit blankets at the foot of the mattress, a dark green rug under the bed atop the oak floors. His walls are littered with framed photos of him with people you don’t know. Show posters under glass from the 90s, some vintage posters from the 70s. It smells like cedar and a nice hotel lobby candle, manly and unassuming. His dressers are a deep walnut wood that compliment the floors with ease – he did say he had an eye for color. Your eyes wander, looking towards the doors of a walk in closet, more art on the walls. A beautiful baroque style mirror that looks straight out of a gothic mansion leaning heavy in the corner. However, you feel heat rush to your cheeks when, slightly hidden, you see two sets of handcuffs dangling off a small hook by one of his bedside tables. 

“Find anything interesting, Nancy Drew?” 

His low rumble makes you jump, turning to see him leaning against the wall of the hallway with his arms crossed. You breathe out a nervous giggle, “Sorry, was just seeing the place. Your room is nice.” 

“Thank you,” he nods, “I just got it redecorated — got a friend who's a killer interior designer.” 

“I bet you got a friend for everything,” you say, meeting him in the hallway where he opens the door to the next room. It's dark, covered in squares of soundproofing foam. A few different guitars hang from the wall above a big desk with three monitors, computer below whirring in a low hum. 

“I do,” he says, “We exchange a lot of favors. This is where I work from for the most part. Laundry is just a closet next to the bathroom. And uh…you saw downstairs, so I guess that’s the tour.” “It’s a really, really nice spot,” you confess, heading back down the spiral staircase, “Super good location, too.” “It wasn’t when I landed here in ‘04,” he leans on the railing at the top step looking down at you, “But you were prob’ly learnin’ fractions back then.” “You’re annoying,” you cross your arms at the bottom stairs staring up at his boyish grin, he winks again – your legs are jello. “I’m gonna change real quick, I made you a cup of coffee – there’s creamer in the fridge if you need it,” he calls out before disappearing from the staircase to change. You go to the fridge where there’s a litter of polaroids stuck to the stainless steel – most of them of a German Shepherd puppy posed with him and another guy, clean cut, nothing like Eddie.

“Whose the cute dog?” you ask when you hear his footsteps against the metal.   

“Oh that’s my nephew, his name’s Bandit,” he says, pulling a shirt over his head while he makes it back down the spiral staircase. Your eyes linger on the tattoos on his chest, trailing down his obliques, “The dog, not the guy in the pictures.” “I figured.” “That’s my buddy Steve, he’s like my brother. I was out in Chicago for a couple months helping him get his shit back on track – we got him a puppy to keep his mind off things,” Eddie snorts, watching you pour some cream into your mug. You offer to do so for him but he shakes his head, taking it from you to put back in the fridge. “Is he okay?” 

“His wife just passed away,” he says quietly. You offer him a sad face and he shrugs in that ‘What can you do?’ kind of way that guys do when they don’t know what to say, “You clothes should be all set in an hour or so.” “Oh, and then you’re kickin’ me out?” you tease, drinking your coffee up against the counter. He smirks, running his palm over the scratchy scruff of his chin and jaw. “Nah, not at all. You can stay as long as you want,” he shakes his head, his curls already starting to dry around his face – big and defined now with the summer rain, “Just didn’t think you’d wanna hang out at some old man’s house all afternoon.” “See, I was thinking how fun it would be to clear you out of your Raisin Bran,” you smirk against the lip of your mug while he makes his way towards you. He crosses his arms, taking slow steps before he’s got you caged in against the counter. If your nose knows, he definitely spritzed a spray of his cologne before he made it back down stairs – dark, spicy sandalwood enveloping you with a whisper of laundry detergent. 

“I’m almost out, actually,” he grins, lids half closing while he looks down into your eyes, “But it’s okay, I have an unopened box of Kashi multigrain in one of these cabinets somewhere.” He waits for your next dig, knowing it’s coming by the quirk in your lips – you’re full of them today. “Gotta keep that blood pressure in check,” you tease again, trying to keep yourself from smiling as he leans in, a deep short chuckle coming from his throat. You little brat, it sounds like.  “It’s really good for your heart health, actually,” he corrects, brows raising a little. A smirk flits across his full lips when he watches you falter a little, your pretty eyes glazing and glassy while he looms over you. His voice gets low and smoky, just like his cologne, “Maybe you could learn a thing or two from me, hm?”

You shut your eyes, biting the inside of your cheek – you can’t show him how good he’s getting you right now, not so soon, “Oh totally, like what the best pill cases are for my future arthritis medicine.” He laughs, the soft crows feet around his eyes crinkling with it. It’s a barking laugh, quick and sharp – you’re sharp, he likes that, “I can definitely do that.” His nose brushes yours and you brace yourself for what’s coming next, ready to feel him kiss you. To feel the buzz of his hands on you like how they were when he led you inside, when he put his hand on your hands in the park. His lips ghost above yours, breath fanning over your face while you take a final one before the inevitable. “You’ve got a quick mouth there, kleine,” he says smoothly. He reaches around you to grab his own mug of coffee, taking a long sip. Eddie catches the miniscule drop of your shoulders, a silent win goes off in his head. You want him to kiss you so bad and that makes him feel like a million bucks – fuck that – a trillion bucks. 

He steps back, taking a sip of his coffee while the apartment gets a little darker, the storm rolling further in. “What’s ‘kleine’?” you ask, trying to regain your breath. He smiles, walking over to the dimmer on the wall and easing the lights up to a warm glow. “It’s German,” he says, looking over his shoulder, “Loosely translates to baby girl.” “You know German?” you ask, trying to not let the translation send you directly into outer space. You watch him with his coffee cup make his way over to the sectional in his open living space. It’s big and inviting, covered in a sea of throws that it looks like he collected over the years. He plops down, tilting his head toward the seat next to him to encourage you over. “I did an extended run of Cabaret in Jersey like – pffft, I don’t know, a million years ago,” he shrugs, putting his coffee on the table in front of him while you plop yourself down on the deep, squishy cushions. You swallow hard when a waft of his cologne hits you again, trying your hardest not to crawl onto his lap to take him in. 

“Saw the show in ‘98 with Alan Cumming, lost my mind – I mean, really transformative for an 18 year old I guess. Years later when I moved out here I saw there was auditions for it and just got knee deep in that shit, taught myself German and everything to make it sound more authentic,” he looks forward wistfully while he recounts the story, smiling at you when he comes back to himself, “Was very helpful when I went to Berlin a few years later.” 

“Oh, how was that?” you ask, “Did you have fun? I’ve never been to Europe.” 

“I’d tell you about all the fun I had if I could remember it,” he grins,flopping his arm up over the back of the couch, beckoning you closer. “C’mere, honey,” he says, the quiet of his voice putting you at ease. You scooch closer to him while he pulls one of the blankets from the end of the chaise cushion and wraps it around your shoulders. With the blanket comes his arm with no hesitation, his hand resting on your shoulder and then down to your waist. “I like to marathon the Twilight Zone when it gets shitty out like this,” he explains, “You down?” 

“Yeah,” you smile, “I’m down. I’ve seen a couple handfuls of episodes.” 

“Yeah? What’s your favorite?” “Hm,” you think, “I think The Monsters are Due on Maple Street. It’s the first one I ever watched.”  “We’ll start with that one, then.” He operates everything from an app on his phone, it surprises you that you’re not as techy as he seems to be. It’s not long before the episode starts and his hold on you becomes more intentional, more cuddly. Thunder booms overhead when the episode gets more intense, making you embarrassed when you jolt. He giggles at you, pulling you in closer – a soft whisper of I got you leaves his lips, you barely hear it.  You snuggle up together while the episode ends and another starts, you tilt your head up toward him, “What’s your favorite?”

“Ooh, good question,” he smirks, “I think The Hitchhiker – it was the first one my uncle ever showed me when I started living with him. Scared the shit out of me.”

“You? Scared?” you quirk a brow, looking down at the way he holds you – assured, confident, “You don’t seem like someone who gets scared very often.” 

“That’s the old age, peach,” he chuckles out, low and rumbly, “All that Raisin Bran, really switches up that fight or flight.” When you laugh he looks down at you, eyes sparkling, noses close together, “Is that funny?” “Yeah, it’s funny,” you say back just as quietly, adjusting yourself a little closer to him, “You’re funny.” His eyes flick down to your lips and then back up, you feel his hand spread out on your waist while he leans in closer, pressing up against you. 

“Just funny?” he asks, watching your eyes flutter closed and then open. His lips ghosting over yours, edge of his bottom lip skating over the curve of your cupid’s bow. 

“No, not just…” you breathe, too intoxicated by how close he is, how his lips and breath tease you. His hand glides up from your waist, trailing a fingertip up the side of your neck, stopping under your chin. You shiver at the touch, goosebumps flooding your arms and legs, belly flipping in somersaults. He tilts your head up, his cocking slowly to the side while his watches for your reaction.

“The show’s about to come back on.” The words are soft and quiet when they leave your mouth, your last ditch effort while fear and excitement roar in your ears. His eyes feel like magnets that you’re constantly pulled too, locking with them while he leans in.

“It’s a boring episode,” he grumbles out quietly from behind a smirk, eyes closing while the tip of your nose is brushed with his. He teases one last time before his lips press warmly against yours, parting slightly to capture them.  You breathe in sharp through your nose, butterflies fluttering and slamming against your chest for release. His hands come up to lay themselves against your cheeks, now hot with excitement while they find home behind your head and neck. He’s fiending for you in the insatiable way he’s felt before, the way a man fiends for a woman.

His leads, taking control of the way the kiss moves with each tilt of his head, changing the intensity each time he breaks away to breathe and come back to you. His lips are full and plush, a soft pink that works for him, it’s almost innocent, when you know he’s anything but. He comes in again, pulling your bottom lip between his teeth, biting down gently to encourage you to let his tongue slide into your mouth. 

His hands greedily pull you in by the waist now that your tongues are brushing, wrapping up together with no space between. You whimper into it, unable to keep the butterflies in your stomach at bay with his other hand roams down your back. You feel his lips stretch into a smile against yours, a growl of a chuckle coming out of his chest when he pulls away again. More kisses, soft and sweet with eyes closed, noses nuzzling before lips meet again. You climb onto his lap, he doesn’t hesitate to wrap his arms around you – tight and protective. You lead this time, a hand coming up to cup his jaw while you kiss, taking his bottom lip between your teeth this time. He relents, grip softening on you, fingertips grazing the tops of your thighs over the material of his sweatpants. Your hips roll forward over his and he pulls away.

“Steady now, sugar,” he warns, looking up at you with heavy lidded brown eyes, “I don’t fuck on the first date.” You pout a little, he likes that face, “You got some kind of moral code, old man?” “M’just not that kind of girl, baby,” he shrugs lightly, taking your hand and pressing soft kisses to your fingertips. His eyes don’t leave yours, big and innocent – like he’s challenging you, “Gotta keep you wantin’ more of me.” You can’t imagine not wanting more of him, no matter how much he gave you. “Then how come you kiss me like that?” you ask, his lips still leaving pillowy kisses against your fingers, “Like you’re hungry for me?” 

“Oh, I am hungry, peach,” he smirks, tongue sliding out and gliding up the space between your first and middle finger. The tip of his tongue flicks the pads of them at the top, before taking just your fingertips into his mouth for a moment – hot and wet. Your mouth hangs open, drool collecting under your tongue at the feeling – imagining it happening exactly where you both want it to. “I think we should cut into that icebox cake,” he offers with a smile, like he didn’t just tease you into complete stupidity, “That’ll solve my problem.” He kisses your cheek as he guides you off his lap to get up, feeling lucky that he put on boxer briefs to keep his now painful erection contained – though his sweatpants left little to the imagination. Eddie comes back with two plates with heaping slices of dessert, passing you a spoon while you try your best to calm down. 

“You okay?” he asks sweetly, brushing a stray hair out of your face. You nod, shoving a bite into your mouth so you don’t scream over his gentle touch and soft eyes. So you don’t yell and stomp through his living room about how bad you want him to bring you upstairs and eat you out. So you don’t tell him about the butterflies. You eat, watch, and talk – getting stories on his tattoos, you tell him about how you just started living alone, he tells you all the best spots to get furniture. You share soft little kisses while cuddled under blankets, laughing at the bad special effects and talking about the good special effects for the 60s as the episodes continue on. You fall asleep on his shoulder and he lets out a big deep breath – he likes that you already feel comfortable enough to do so. He swallows hard, doing his best to settle down his own butterflies. 

prev | next

[juststoriesintheend]

I. Faith

Chapter Pairing(s): Master Sol x f!Reader

Chapter Content: unrequited feelings, the force, swearing

Word Count: 3,534

《 [series masterlist] 》 《 II 》 《 III 》 《 IV 》

Osha is lost. You know she is strong, capable, that she can take care of herself without issue, but that knowledge doesn’t stop your heart from worrying. She’s suffered so much since the return of her sister, since her past was dredged from the very depths of her heart and brought to light for all to see, that you fear it will lead her to ruin if she isn’t found. You don’t want that for her. You don’t want to see her light fade from the Force. But her disappearance only further solidifies your concerns, sends you pacing the halls of the Polan.

That is how Sol finds you. You sense his presence in the moments before he turns the corner ahead of you, but you actively avoid looking him in the eyes. You know what he’ll say, you know the patient wisdom you will see in his eyes, and you find yourself hoping to avoid it at all costs.

“You are worried.” He doesn’t need to say it, but you find that the sound of his voice is soothing, even when stating the obvious. It soothes the frantic peaks of your anxiety a hair.

“I know.” It is easy to forget yourself, to forget how your emotions extend beyond yourself. He must have been fighting against the onslaught of your thoughts for the past hour, if not the entire flight here. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to-”

The raising of his hand, palm out, halts your apology, but the gentle curve of his smile softens the blow. “You are not the only one. I fear for her safety, as well.” Sol finally bridges the remaining space between you and settles his hand upon your shoulder. Warmth emanates from the point of contact, spiraling down your arm and across your shoulder blade, the familiar, comforting sort of warmth Sol always carries with him. “We will find her,” he says.

I hope so, you think, but you do not voice it. You know what he would say if you did. Hoping to beat him to it, to project the confidence and certainty you wish you had, you echo the sentiment back to him. “I have faith in the Force.”

Sol smiles again, something tender and sweet that crinkles by his eyes. “That is all we need.”

Savareen is a remarkable place, vibrant and wild in ways unlike anything you’ve ever known before. The ocean is blindingly blue, the sand of its beaches dazzlingly bright, and the flowers that dot the inland sand dunes are the most colorful, most delicate purple blossoms this side of the galaxy. It’s a pity, then, that you’re not here to sightsee.

The wind tears at your robes like it tears at your voice, ripping it from your throat the moment you speak it. “There are too many life forms around, I can’t sense her!”

Sol nods. He stows his own scanner at a loop on his belt and reaches out through the Force with you, his arm extended and eyes shut. You follow suit, but not before you take a moment, a fleeting thing, to admire his profile against the shimmer of the sand. When you finally join him, his signature is glowing brightly in the haze of the Force. Tendrils of his essence spread out before you, drifting past and through every dune and rock and streak of grass, Osha’s name the only question he brings with him. Wherever she is, she is beyond either your reach or his. Which is concerning in its own right. Sol’s mastery of the Force is much greater than yours and if he cannot sense her, then she is far away indeed.

“Should we split up?” You struggle up the slope of a particularly steep dune, tripping all over your feet and the sand and the dangling edge of your robes as you go. “Cover more ground?”

“No.” And suddenly, he’s there, his hand at your arm, pulling you up when your feet fail you. “This planet is uncharted, easy to get lost in. We will find her together.”

The peak of this particular dune offers a rather bleak view of the landscape - sand and gravel for as far as you can see, with small mountain peaks in the distance. Some of the valleys nestled between dunes sport streaks of purple where flowers have cropped up, perhaps feeding on water run off when it rains or a water source beneath the surface. But there is no sign of Osha. Defeat burns hot and heavy in your chest, and you wish it didn’t. Savareen is massive, an entire planet’s worth of desert and ocean, and if Osha does not wish to be found, then there is only so much you can do. It worries you that this mission may be one that remains incomplete - forever.

Sol starts for the bottom of this dune, where the flowers crop up among the stones, but he takes his time. The sands shift so easily under his feet that he can only go so fast. You are hesitant to follow.

It takes him a moment, but he stops and turns when he notices you haven’t been following. His eyes squint against the sun. “Your concern for her burns brightly.”

There was never any point in trying to hide it, but you are still frustrated that he read you so easily. “Yes,” you answer, slowly. You try to recenter yourself in the Force before continuing. “But I’m sure if I weren’t so anxious, I would sense the same from you.”

The awkward, tilted smile he offers you in response is confirmation enough. “She needs us. She needs you, and I cannot do this alone.”

No, you don’t suppose he can, not when he embarked on this mission without first clearing it with the Council. Neither of you should be here and you both know it.

The sand shifts quickly and quietly when you take your first step down. You find yourself thanking the Council, the ancestral Jedi, anyone who cares, for the choice to clothe Jedi in tall boots. At least that way your feet aren’t drowning in sand.

“Sol, if you think I’d ever let you do this alone, you’re an idiot.” You slide past him, letting the sand take you where it pleases, but the stunned expression on his face doesn’t go unnoticed. You can feel it, even without the Force. “Osha needs us both. And I, for- ah!”

Your boot lands on a rock, and the sand beneath it gives way to empty air, and in a single moment you’re lurched forward and sent tumbling down the remainder of the dune. Somewhere in the distance, you hear Sol shout your name, but it’s lost to the wind and the rushing of your blood in your ears. This dune is big, but not so big that you have all the free time in the world before you smash your head upon the rocks at its base. You need to act now.

The Force is vast. Even after a lifetime of learning to fold yourself within its weight, it still manages to steal your breath each time you reach for it. This time is no exception. You try to imagine yourself as something very small drifting through something great and soft, something gentle and slow - a drop of water in a tiny brook, a petal skipping over a field of grass - hoping to slow your descent. For a long moment, you’re not sure that it works. You are still falling, the sand still surrounds you, but…

Something in the Force moves. It is a mighty thing that blasts its way past you, though you still can’t tell which way is up or down. Everything is fast and hard, and you’ve decided to come to terms with the fact that you’re probably going to have a very nasty gash somewhere on your body when you finally finish tumbling, until suddenly everything is solid. Your mind still spins, but your body has stopped.

You take a breath. In. Out. You open one eye. There’s a wall of sand before you. You open the other. It’s littered with the broken branches and battered flowers from the blooming bushes you had noticed earlier, but no rocks. No great stones for you to dash your head upon, nothing that might endanger you. Just the violet petals of the Savareen flowers and the faint yellow trail of pollen they leave behind. Your mind reels as you drag yourself into some vaguely comfortable sitting position. Did you do this? You suppose you could have, but summoning a wall of sand to protect yourself hadn’t been your intention.

It’s then that you hear your name on the wind. Sol. Though you’re still dizzy and half dazed, you swing your head in the direction of his voice just in time to see him staggering the last few paces separating you, the sleeves of his robes swinging this way and that as his body dips with each step. He drops to his knees before you, and you find yourself breathless at the gesture.

“Are you alright?” he asks. Already, he’s brought his hands to cup your face, seeking out any injuries with a sort of crackling and frantic energy you have never seen from him. “Are you hurt?”

You nod. “‘m fine. I-I think.”

He wears gloves. You’ve always known this, but it’s a fact that hits you particularly hard now that he is touching you. In the back of your mind, you’ve absently mused on the feel, the scent, the everything about them, though it had never been intentional. Not fully. They are soft, you find. Worn with age and the hilt of a well-loved saber, sanded down until they grow thin at the seams and his warmth seeps through to whatever he happens to be touching.

Sol frowns as he brushes his thumb over the ridge of your cheekbone. Electricity shoots down your spine. “You have…”

“What?”

A quick glance down, though, shows streaks of yellow over the white and brown parts of your robes: the pollen. The flowers must have dropped their powder when you fell, or perhaps when Sol summoned enough sand to stop a runaway fathier. Curious, you swipe your finger over your shoulder and sniff it.

“It smells like petrichor,” you muse, and that, for some reason, is enough to make him laugh. You wish he would laugh more often.

“A remarkable observation.” He stands and offers you his hands, watching patiently while you brush the remaining pollen from your clothes. “Come on.”

The wall of sand catches your eye as you move. Before your question can manifest itself, you find yourself drawn to Sol, your gaze, your body, your very essence leaning and leaning until you finally fall into him. It’s possible you’re still a bit dizzy. “Was that you?”

He braces himself against the influx of your weight as his arms come around you, and it strikes you just how soft he manages to be while also staying strong. He smiles that crinkle-eyed smile you have always loved and nods. “I didn’t want you to get hurt.”

“Thank you,” you murmur, suddenly enraptured by the gentle slope of his jaw and the rich, earthy hue of his eyes as they flicker down, down to the cleave in your robes and the sudden thrumming of your pulse as it leaps from your throat. It strikes you hard, then, that you feel more exposed under the blazing of the sun and your layers of clothing than you ever have before. Startled by this discomforting realization, you scramble out of his arms on wobbly legs. “We should, uh, get going. I don’t want to lose her.”

It’s hot. Far too hot. Savareen is a desert, of course, so the heat is to be expected, but it feels strange this time. You feel strange. Already, you’ve shrugged off the outer layer of your clothes, but your body seems only to grow warmer with each passing moment. It’s awful.

“D’you think we’re any closer?”

Sol’s head tilts in your direction, his expression unreadable. “I have a read on her ship,” he says with a nod to his scanner, “but I still cannot sense her.”

Oh, thank the Force. The sooner you find her, the sooner you can get off this dust bowl and strip out of your clothes to enjoy something cool and refreshing. A real shower, or an endless glass of some chilled, fruity drink that freezes your brain. Even an ice bath sounds appealing. Or a visit to Hoth. Anything, so long as it quenches the fire that’s blazing beneath your skin.

The dunes have evened out into something more walkable - a blessing in its own right. Pebbles and larger rocks pepper the land while the mountains loom ever closer. The sun drifts down toward the softly sloped peaks, and the flowers sway in the wind, and everything feels itchy and tight and utterly unbearable. You cast your attention to Sol and feel completely, irrationally angry watching him exist without being as miserable as you are.

“Aren’t you melting, Sol?” Hands pry at the neck of your robes to loosen them even more, but they come back damp with your own sweat.

He halts, rather than answer. Soft brown eyes - warm, always warm, like a fire in the dead of winter, like the earth heated by the light of the sun - study you without words, without judgment, without a shred of the misery you feel now, and you hate it. You hate it so much that it makes your stomach churn and your thighs ache.

Your mouth parts to fill the empty space he leaves behind. “I swear, this planet’s a fucking sauna. How can you stand it?” You don’t care that you’ve never truly sworn in front of him before. It’s too difficult to keep up appearances right now. You are not the perfect Jedi you’ve always wished him to think of you as, you are hot and you are tired and you want this to be over as soon as possible. “What the hell is she doing out here, anyway? Running? From what? She couldn’t have picked a nicer spot? We’d have a harder time finding her on Coruscant and at least it wouldn’t be so fucking miserable-”

“Are you well?”

It’s his tone that gives you pause. Not once in the past sixteen years has he ever spoken to you like this, like… like there’s something wrong with you, like your very presence offends him. It’s unlike him. And it hurts.

Scowling, you start to lumber past him. “Are you?”

His eyes close and hardly a moment later, you feel a force pressing lightly against your sternum. A Force. His Force.

“Are you studying me?”

Sol’s brow furrows in your direction. “Your mind is clouded, confused,” he says, and he does it with such calm. How is he so damn calm? “What’s wrong?”

He has the audacity to ask you this?

“Look around you! We’re in the middle of a kriffing desert, Sol, and you wanna know ‘what’s wrong’?”

The heat of the sun seems to beam itself directly into your brain. (Something logical in the far reaches of your mind curls in on itself.) You shouldn’t even be here. None of you should. (You’re so angry, screaming inside your skin as this planet boils you alive, and you don’t understand why.) This whole mission is a waste - a waste of time, a waste of your resources, of the bond between you and Osha, between her and Sol. What the hell was she thinking? (Something isn’t right. This isn’t right.)

Sol’s compassion eats through your heart when he looks you in the eye. “I’m worried about her, too, but-”

“She’s an idiot,” you snap, and your vehemence startles even you, though you fight not to show it. (Why are you so angry?)

The irritation that lances through his sigh, through his voice, is a victory, small though it is. “I understand your anger, but it will not help us find Osha.”

He’s right, of course. Some Jedi instinct deep within you knows this to be true.

“Anger is chaos,” he continues. “It burns bright, but it only serves to confuse and to tear apart that which is unified.”

There is no chaos, there is harmony. You learned those words from your own Master, and you have heard them from Sol’s own mouth countless times by virtue of being Osha’s friend all these years.

A memory sparks.

“Center yourself.”

A younger Osha, about twelve and practically vibrating with emotion, sits cross-legged under her Master’s watchful eye. She fidgets, restless and uncertain; you can feel it from the alcove where you linger.

“I can’t,” she says, and you can hear all the things she wishes she could say tied tightly together with a thread of restraint.

Sol almost smiles. “You can.”

He moves to sit across from her, his cloak spread out around him like the tresses of a waterfall. He does it with such grace, so effortlessly. It’s why you can’t help lingering where you don’t belong, watching something that isn’t yours to see.

“You do not need to fear your emotions, Osha. They are not an enemy for you to fight, but an ally that gives you strength.”

Being five years your junior, Osha’s skills with the Force are still young and struggling to flourish in the overgrowth of her past that still haunts her. You remember being her age, how the world around you felt too big to make sense of, how you tried your very best to be a good padawan but always felt lacking. Meditation does not come easy to you either, not even now. Yet you find yourself intrigued by Sol’s approach to the issue. He comes to Osha’s level and meets her where she struggles, he brings warmth and understanding, a patience that runs so deep you wonder if it’s a piece of the Force that threads directly through him.

“It is through our emotions that we can find peace, but only by using the Force as our guide.” Osha nods quietly, her eyelids twitching as she attempts to reconnect herself, but Sol smiles. He always smiles. “Breathe deep. Find me in the Force, Padawan.”

On Savareen, you feel the echo of that memory breeze through you, body and soul. With it comes a peace that is quiet and unassuming, shrouded in Sol’s very essence. He’s reaching out to you, you realize, offering you his hand. Offering you peace.

Find me in the Force.

You are a Knight now. You are not the young child you once were, nor the teen who snuck through the Temple halls in search of mischief. You are better than this, you are above such petty and aggressive means of expression, and Sol knows it as well as you do.

Find me.

There is something that looms large over your heart and mind, something that clouds your judgment in a way unknown to you. Through the Force, you sense it curled up like a predator lying in wait as it courses through your veins. Through Sol’s peace and the calming guidance of his presence, you find that this thing brings fire and passion, that it simmers low in your belly and boils your brain while lashing out at anything that does not bring it satisfaction.

“There’s something in my head,” you say.

“I see it.”

“It hurts.” You hadn’t fully realized it until this moment. “Sol…”

His hand curls around your bicep. It is meant to be a comfort, but all it does is make your body scream. You cry out, half agonized and half electrified, and very nearly fall over, as if his very presence were the source of it all.

The planet seems to swim around you, the sand bleeding into the sky into the mountains into everything and nothing. Desperate for relief, you claw at the hem of your robes until they start falling apart at your chest. Your cloak is long forgotten, the tabard and overtunic ripped off your body and thrown aside, everything is discarded until you find yourself in only your undertunic and trousers. The boots are on very thin ice.

Everything hurts and everything is hot. Wherever your clothing touches you, it burns like a brand, but even in the midst of your desperation you can’t bring yourself to completely strip, not in front of Sol. Not like this. Some final shred of dignity still clings to your consciousness and you won’t allow yourself to bare your body to him. Not when… After all these years, he’s never known. It would kill you if he discovered it now.

You fall to your hands and knees in the sand, panting. “Sol, what’s wrong with me? What’s happening?”

Sol will know. He always knows.

But as you slip onto your stomach, your mind still screaming and your body on the verge of implosion, you catch a glimpse of the Master you’ve loved for the past eight years and all you see on his face is fear. Confusion. Uncertainty.

And then you see nothing at all.

taglist: @wolffegirlsunite

[thedroneranger]

Pages In-between

Jake "Hangman" Seresin

Synopsis: Mrs. Seresin is a hard person to surprise. However, stealing a page from her book, Jake may have managed to catch his wife off guard.

Notes: Here is entry one of two for @roosterforme's '80s Rocktober challenge! The song is Centerfold by J. Geils Band. Part of the To-do List collection.

Warnings: 18+ only; smut.

Word count: 3.8k.

Mrs. Seresin did a little happy dance as she stuck the key in the lock and opened the door of her PO box. This was the last time she would have to stop by the post office to pick up her business mail. A smile pulled her lips as she cradled all the mail in one hand and locked the box with the other.

She was also delighted by the thought of all her sample books and design digests moving to her new studio. Now, she and Jake had more room for collector edition novels and travel tchotchkes in their home office. Jake was returning tonight from a week-long training and had promised to help pack. He might’ve been more excited than her that she was finally getting a studio. 

Jake never stood in the way of her career, but he did voice his opinion about her need for more separation between work and home. Yes, she had an office—they technically shared the space—but sometimes work spilled into other areas of the house. And Jake knew she was overworking when he was away.

Today’s mail drop was sizable and included a few new sample books. A couple of her monthly subscriptions also arrived. She’d have time to thoroughly sort when she got home. Jake wasn’t due back until later.

Once home, she parked in the garage and was greeted by Ruck when she entered the house. She spent a few minutes loving him before going upstairs to change. Ruck on her heels, she returned to the garage to get the mountain of mail. Back inside, she stood at the kitchen island and sorted.

A sample book for a new tile company’s latest collection. The wallpaper samples a client requested. Pantone’s interiors collection for the new year. New editions of Dwell and Architectural Digest. The last piece of mail was wrapped in an opaque poly plastic bag. Going for ease, she fished scissors out of the drawer beside her and sliced off the crimp.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” she said aloud as she pulled a glossy magazine out of the wrapper. Staring back at her was a shirtless Jake, wearing Wranglers with his thumbs hooked in the belt loops. He donned his favorite Stetson and had a toothpick dangling from his lips. The title Flyboy was printed above his head in a font that mimicked the infamous Playboy.

A smile plastered on her face, she sighed as she flipped it open. As tempted as she was to immediately look at the centerfold, she browsed the articles and features first. Jake put a lot of thought into Flyboy—from the photos to the articles and down to the barcode, which included their wedding date.

Now she understood why she’d been banned from his calendar photoshoot.

Every year, the Lemoore-based strike fighter squadrons competed to raise money for charity. By New Year’s Eve each year, the squadrons were expected to present a check for at least $12,000 to the charity of their choice. The three years previous, Jake’s squadron, the VFA-151 Vigilantes, had at least doubled the minimum expected donation. The squadron’s creative approaches to raising funds not only brought in a lot of money but made them the reigning champions. 

Over the years, the Seresin became a staple in the competition. Year 1, Mrs. Seresin pitched the Commander to allow the Vigilantes to participate in a date auction. The night was memorable not only because the squadron raised $64,000, but also because Mrs. Seresin got into a bidding war with the Commander’s ex-wife over Jake. The victor, she got kudos from the Commander for putting his pain-in-the-ass ex in her place.

The following year, Jake suggested weekend car washes from Memorial Day to Labor Day. The weekends he and Mrs. Seresin volunteered were always the highest grossing. When Mrs. Seresin couldn’t join him, he was sure to send her pictures of him and the rest of the squad posing in black triangle bikini tops.

For Year 3, the squadron was cleared to host an air show. It got so much publicity that the Navy decided its official demo squadron, the Blue Angels, would participate. Obsessed with the Blue Angels as a child, Jake nearly blacked out when he was presented with an honorary patch for flying alongside them.

No one thought the Vigilantes would be able to top the air show for Year 4. However, inspired by an anniversary gift from his wife, Jake proposed a calendar. Twelve months, 12 pilots. After the initial laughter, everyone was sold.

When Jake told his Mrs. Seresin, she immediately sprung into action to assist. By the time Jake left for work the next morning, she had secured a pro bono photographer and had plans to dress the sets and pilots. Jake knew his wife was a force, but she never ceased to amaze him. She had to shoo him out of the house before he was late for work, because he was showering her in physical gratitude. 

Mrs. Seresin couldn’t help but smile as she thought about all the late nights and takeout. Ann, her long-time friend, agreed to be the photographer and de facto assistant art director. Mrs. Seresin and Ann had staged and shot so many home and business interiors together, they lost count. They were excited to tackle a new frontier.

However, Mrs. Seresin did not get to conquer the frontier that was Jake in front of the camera. When he asked her to not attend his shoot because he wanted to surprise her, she choked down her disappointment and respected his wishes. 

However, her disappointment was in the rearview mirror the minute she saw Jake’s photo at the reveal party. Clad in just his dress whites pants, Jake’s megawatt smile lit the image while he kneeled alongside Ruck. Tongue lolling out of his mouth, Ruck was also smiling at the camera. 

To top it off, Jake was the pilot for December, Mrs. Seresin’s birthday month. “An early birthday gift,” Jake called it as he hugged her to his side and kissed her temple. 

That night was for Jake and the rest of the squad, but Mrs. Seresin felt like the real winner.

After its release, the Vigilante calendar took social media by storm. It was easily their most successful campaign, raking in over six figures. And of course, Jake and Ruck became everyone’s favorite duo. 

Although Jake wasn’t on social media, and Mrs. Seresin kept her social footprint strictly business, the internet sleuths still found them. Fortunately, they were respectful of their boundaries. Even more surprising, learning Jake was married and that Ruck was Mrs. Seresin’s dog just made folks swoon harder.

An hour after opening the mail, Mrs. Seresin was tucked on the couch, wine in hand, and reading Flyboy cover to cover. Ruck laid at her feet and lifted his head every now and then to confirm her noises weren’t duress.

Mrs. Seresin held the magazine sideways to take in the centerfold in all its glory. Jake was standing naked in the foreground of a hangar with his helmet perfectly positioned to keep the photo modest and have his call sign on full display. His signature smile, sandwiched between deep dimples, added to the cheekiness of the missing vowels on his helmet. She couldn’t help but smile.

Jake knew the magazine arrived today. His grip on the steering wheel tightened as he thought about her reading it. It wasn’t the pictures he was nervous about, it was the pages in between. 

Curating Flyboy was a trip down memory lane for Jake. He spent time scrolling through their shared memories and writing his perspective of their adventures. It was fun, and he even decided to start a journal.

Jake was confident the magazine caught her off guard. His birthday plan was unfolding perfectly. He was hoping his outfit, his flight suit, was the second punch of a one-two celebration combination. The cherry on top was riding shotgun: a half dozen her favorite donuts. 

Since her birthday was two days after Christmas, Jake vowed to keep her birthday separate from the holidays. To honor that, he always celebrated with her in early December. More used to having her birthday swept under the rug, it was the first time in their relationship Jake was able to surprise her.

The truck headlights lit the closed garage door as Jake pulled into the driveway. Once parked, he slipped out of the vehicle and prepared for Mrs. Seresin’s three-legged protector, Ruck, to greet him. Inside, while Jake shed his things at the door, Ruck nosed the donut box. Jake had bought a doggie donut so Ruck could celebrate, too. Package inspected and approved, Ruck led the way to the living room. 

Mrs. Seresin was flipping through what Jake assumed was his magazine. She glanced up to find him swaggering over in his flight suit—the top tied around his waist—and a black t-shirt, holding a box. “Hey, flyboy.” Her voice was sultry. “Or should I say coverboy.” Jake couldn’t help but smile, and she mirrored his expression. 

“Happy birthday, baby.” He flipped open the box. Her face lit up as she stood to get a donut. Jake watched as she selected her favorite and happily took a huge bite. While she chewed it, she turned the pastry to feed Jake. He obliged. 

She tucked a couple fingers in the waist of his flight suit and led him to the couch. Jake placed the donuts on the coffee table and traded her donut for Ruck’s treat. She smiled and fed it to him. Jake’s heart swelled at how gentle Ruck was with her. She finished her donut nestled under Jake’s arm with Ruck’s head in her lap. She fed Jake the last bite. After swallowing, he leaned in to plant a sugary kiss on her lips and murmur one more “happy birthday”.

“Can I unwrap my present?” She smirked at him.

Jake grinned. “You already did.” He tipped his head toward the magazine on the table. Mrs. Seresin leaned forward to grab the magazine, and then returned to her spot under Jake’s arm. Casually, she flipped the pages. “Do you like it?” Jake questioned.

“Love it,” she quickly answered. She looked at him with the biggest smile. He leaned down again and pressed his lips to hers. “So thoughtful. So personal. So hot,” she said between kisses. “But you really didn’t drive home in your suit flight for me?” Her lips pulled into a pout. “I know this is a clean suit. You don’t reek of jet fuel.” Jake wordlessly responded, his bottom lip disappeared behind his teeth as he smiled.

“What was your favorite article?” Jake asked, unfazed.

“Ruck’s, of course.” Jake scrunched his nose at her. She chuckled and returned to lazily flipping the pages. “I also liked reminiscing about our honeymoon. You picked some exclusive photos.” Jake flashed a toothy grin as she looked back at him. He had included some photos he took of Mrs. Seresin on the private yacht they stayed on for their French Riviera honeymoon.

His personal favorite was her draped nude on a deck lounge chair with her legs butterflied while she pleasured herself—her hand tastefully covered her core. “I’d love to recreate some of those by the pool,” he responded. 

“Mhmm,” Mrs. Seresin replied, still flipping through the magazine. “Or on another yacht. We do have a milestone anniversary coming up,” she reminded him. Jake responded by placing a kiss to her temple.

“Your photos were nice, too,” she added, making eye contact with him and sticking her tongue out. He squeezed her closer and tried to playfully catch her tongue but captured her bottom lip instead. She leaned into the kiss, bringing a hand to the side of his face. Carefully, Jake removed the periodical from her lap as she slid onto his. 

Straddling him, she cradled his face in her hands as she deepened the kiss. Magazine safely on the coffee table, Jake slipped his hands under her shirt—one of his Academy shirts—and his thumbs dipped into the waistband of her bike shorts to rub the soft skin of her lower belly. His thumbs circled lower and confirmed his suspicion—no panties. 

She rolled her pelvis into his as she kissed him harder. He moaned, and Mrs. Seresin thought she might come right then. She pulled away, mouth agape, and sat back on his lap. “Get this off.” She demanded as she helped strip him of his t-shirt. “Just like the magazine.” She referred to the picture of Jake shirtless with his flight suit tied around his waist. In the photo his suit was so dangerously low that, with his thumb hooked in the roll, you could see his tiny “Bite me” tattoo. 

She rubbed herself all over Jake as they continued to make out. Jake’s hands alternated between squeezing her ass and wandering up her shirt. He quickly learned she wasn’t wearing a bra and was doing his best to coax her out of her top. 

She whined and tangled her fingers in his locks, pulling his head back and breaking their kiss. “I want to feel more of your skin.” Jake punctuated his statement by palming her ass.

“It’s not your birthday, you don’t get to make demands.” She ground herself more in his lap, making him groan.

“Not a demand, just a suggestion,” Jake responded. She loosened her grip on him, allowing him to dip his head toward her chest. She watched as he found one of her taut nipples through the fabric. Gently, he tugged it with his teeth. She bit her bottom lip as she enjoyed the sensation. 

“Jake.” She drew out his name as her head tipped back. He switched to the other nipple. “Fuck.” She quickly ripped her shirt overhead, and he gladly mouthed her bare chest. As he licked and sucked and massaged, she found a rhythm rolling her pelvis against his.

Mrs. Seresin slowly halted her hips and curled her fingers back into Jake’s hair to pull him away from her chest. Jake looked up at her—lips puffy and cheeks a little flush. He whined when she wiggled out of his lap. 

She stood and slowly began to slide off her bike shorts as she sauntered out of his reach. She even turned so he could see her tattoo appear on the swell of her backside as she slowly slid the fabric down. Once her shorts were around her ankles, she stepped out of them. 

“C’mon, coverboy.” Back still to Jake, she come-hithered him over her shoulder as she strutted away. Jake immediately knew where she was leading him. He practically jumped off the couch and ran after her. She squealed when his arm snaked around her middle, and he carried her sideways into their office. 

There were boxes—half full, empty, flat packed—strewn around the room. Otherwise, the office was in its usual decadence. The floor-to-ceiling windows, looking out to the secluded backyard, letting the moonlight flood the space.

Jake marched past their desk, over to the windows and set Mrs. Seresin on her feet. He soaked in her naked form as he held her until she was steady. Jake was distracted by her curves illuminated in the night light. She got his attention back by tugging on his arm as she turned to face him. Jake made eye contact with her as his hands continued to traverse her body. He could feel the incremental movements of her muscles. 

“You ok?” She asked as she wrapped her arms around his neck and moved a stray lock of hair away from his face. 

Jake engulfed her in his arms and pulled her into his chest. Her head was tipped completely back. “Never better.” His voice was heavy with lust. She smiled as his lips met hers for a lingering kiss. “Is it my birthday or yours?” he asked as they separated. 

She smirked and nipped his lip. “It’s definitely mine.” She slipped out of his arms. He watched as she pressed her back flush to the cool windows. “Your flight suit looks good on, but take it off for me, coverboy,” she said.

Even in the low light, Jake’s smile was beaming. Jake’s movements were antagonistically slow as he loosened the fabric and pushed it down his body. She couldn’t help but smile as he mimicked her earlier motions, slowly revealing his tattoo. 

Flight suit abandoned, he stalked toward her, holding eye contact. His cock bounced against his abdomen with each step. Back and palms still flush to the glass, she craned her head back to maintain eye contact as Jake approached. He leaned down for a kiss. A large hand softly cupped the column of her throat. Jake had her pinned between him and the window with his length resting against her belly. She squeezed her thighs together as their make out intensified.

He couldn’t wait any longer. Jake pulled back. “Turn.” His voice was deep. She obeyed and supported herself with her forearms against the glass as she bent and arched her back.

Mrs. Seresin closed her eyes and remembered to breathe as Jake easily slid to the hilt. “You’re so wet,” Jake praised as he began a slow pace. One hand returning to her throat. “Did you work yourself up looking at my photos, thinking about what’s behind that helmet?” Jake rhetorically asked as he gently squeezed her neck. He snapped his hips, making her whimper. He smiled, feeling the hum against his fingers.

For leverage, Jake placed a hand beside hers on the window, and slipped the other around her front between her legs. She moaned and squeezed her eyes closed as his calloused fingers drew tight circles on her clit. Jake smiled into her shoulder as he felt her push onto her toes to chase the friction of his fingers.

Together they found a perfect rhythm. Jake continued to pepper her with praise and move with her. Eventually, Mrs. Seresin had her cheek and chest pressed against the window. She moaned with each thrust. Jake knew if they kept this positioned he’d come before her. 

She gasped but stayed pressed to the window as Jake dropped to his knees. Spreading her with his thumbs, he lapped her from behind. She keened as she arched her back more to give him better access. Jake shifted slightly so his tongue dipped into her.

That was all Mrs. Seresin needed. Jake stilled and let her bounce up and down on his tongue. Mrs. Seresin grew louder with each bob. Palms pressed to the glass, she rested her chin on it as she quickened her pace. Finally, her hips stuttered and she slowed her motions as waves of pleasure rolled through her. 

Jake popped to his feet and quickly slipped his cock into her throbbing heat. “Yes,” he hissed as her walls squeezed him. A few thrusts and he pumped her full of cum.

He groaned as his body eclipsed hers against the glass. After he caught his breath, he kissed her shoulders. She groaned, lifting her head off the window to look over her shoulder. 

“Happy birthday,” Jake said before he pressed his lips to hers. 

“A happy birthday, indeed.” She returned to her position against the window. 

Quickly, Jake slipped out of her and scooped into her his arms to avoid dripping any cum on the floor. She relaxed into him as he carried her to their bedroom. He deposited her on the bed before getting a washcloth to clean her up. 

Cleaned up, he tossed her favorite of his shirts at her before disappearing back into the bathroom. When he returned she was already curled under the blankets. Jake tossed on a shirt and shorts and headed downstairs to let Ruck out. 

While Ruck was in the yard, Jake went to the garage and unloaded the last of Mrs. Seresin’s gifts. He set them in the office out of the way. She could open them in the morning. 

Their little secret, Jake treated Ruck to one more donut before they headed back to the bedroom. Ruck tucked himself in his bed on Mrs. Seresin’s side of the bed as Jake slipped under the covers and spooned his wife. 

She turned to face him. “Thank you.” She gave him a quick kiss before flipping back over to tuck herself against him. 

“You’re welcome.” Jake pressed one more kiss to her temple, and then listened to her breathing as he fell asleep. 

The next morning, Jake still asleep, she wandered downstairs to make coffee. While she waited for his pour-over, she picked up the remnants of last night. Retracing their steps, she picked up clothes and folded them. As she entered the office, she kept her sights on Jake’s crumpled flight suit. She folded it, a smile tugging her lips as she thought about last night. Her smile became a full fledged smirk as she noticed all the body part prints on the glass.

As she turned to leave, something leaning against the bookshelves caught her eye. Those were not there last night. Two very large packages. She walked over with a hand extended, fingers ready to graze the paper, when she heard, “Go ahead, open them.” 

Startled, she jumped back, clapped a hand over her heart and turned to find Jake. His grin outdoing the Cheshire Cat, he leaned against the door frame with a mug in each hand. She caught her breath as Jake sauntered over. He handed her a mug and pressed his lips to her forehead. 

“These are your last gifts,” Jake said. She threw him a look as she walked back toward the packages. Perching her cup on a shelf, she dipped her fingers behind one of the folds and tore the wrapping. She couldn’t help but laugh as she caught sight of her own face staring at her. 

Quickly, she tore through the paper to reveal framed prints of her draped naked across the hood of Jake’s vintage Mustang and him naked, holding his helmet and smirking. Their centerfolds.

“Where were you thinking we would hang these?” She gathered her coffee and stepped back beside Jake so they could view their photos together.

He shrugged. They looked at each other. “You’re the designer, and it’s your birthday, so you get to pick.”

“I’ll think about it.” They both smiled as she bounced onto her toes to give him a quick peck. 

“One more thing,” he said as they parted. She waited for him to continue. “You can’t hang yours in the garage.” She arched an eyebrow. “I don’t want the neighbor boys trying to sneak a peek when the garage opens and closes.” She burst into laughter. 

“I love you,” she replied. Jake feigned confusion as she kissed his cheek. Together, they sipped their coffees and chatted about where to hang the photos. 

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