#and only seems to get more intense w age | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

pedgito · 3 months

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𝐌𝐎𝐎𝐍𝐋𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓 | Joel Miller x reader

summary | a series of nights spent with a neighbor you find an unlikely connection with, sharing a similar interest to pass the time, it forms into something much more intense and suddenly, neither of you can deny it anymore.

content warning | no outbreak!joel, f!reader that is mentioned to have hair that can be pushed back but no exact length, descriptions of outfits, lots of w*ed smoking/consuming ed*bles, a quick mention of a burn, joel being a good neighbor, he's still the biggest girl dad, age gap implied but readers isn't specified, joel's not afraid to go for what he wants, most of the interactions happen while they're high so please keep that in mind when reading, lotsa boob worship, fingering, oral (m receiving), unprotected p in v, mentions of joel being sterile, strangers to friends to lovers. this was written over the course of a weekend don't look at me

word count — 8k

The first and only time you see him is when you’re moving in next door, trudging in the moving boxes on your own as he seems to ready up his own truck full of boxes, followed by two younger women who seem to be bickering at him and he bypasses them with a smug smile on his face—he’s older, so you came to your own assumption that it was probably his daughters.

That’s all you know about him.

Outside of the fact he drives a truck, works long hours, and that his name is Joel.

The girl with the begrudging smile and worn out converse called his name while you were throwing away your trash and trying to not seem like the nosey neighbor.

He comes, he goes. The roar of his truck is all you hear and you never really see him outside of an occasional swish of his curtains through your own windows, but occasionally you leave your trash can out by the curb longer than necessary and it magically appears at the beginning of your driveway.

Now, you don’t want to point fingers—but the only ones tucked away are his and your own, leaving the other neighbors to fend for themselves.

It’s a simple gesture, kind.

You want to thank him but you never get the chance.

You’re curious if he’s a night owl—lights staying on even into the early hours of the morning, shadows crossing around his living room that you can see from your bedroom window, tossing and turning most nights as you struggle and struggle to fall asleep.

You’ve learned methods to help, plenty—if you ever remember to charge your vibrator it was usually your first choice, a quick release of some of the built up tension over the day and you could eventually find it easier to fall asleep. But, your tried and true method was weed.

That was it. Sometimes you didn’t even need much—an edible to curb the anxiety that filled you, a puff or two at the pen you had stashed away in your bedside drawer, but most of the time it was occupying your mind with the work of rolling the joint before smoking it out your bedroom window that helped the best.

However, tonight was different.

You toss and turn and fling the blankets away that stick to your skin, the broken ceiling fan doing nothing to quell that muggy heat that was permeating in your house from earlier in the day—it just sat frozen, menacing and taunting at you. You search through the drawer at your bedside for the small tin case covered in stickers of various interests and things you enjoyed, kicking the sliding backdoor with your foot as you traveled through the living room to your kitchen and stepping out onto your back deck.

It’s still hot, but the breeze allows a noticeable difference.

You work quietly, hunched slightly over the railing and using the faint glow of the light hanging beside your backdoor, just finishing up rolling the joint as you bring it to your tongue and the distinct creak from the house next to you grabs your attention—the sliding door mimicking your own.

Your heart races and you don’t know why. It could be one of the girls, still strangers but somehow you find it easier to look that way if it was them—Joel was intimidating, the aura he carried within just a few seconds of a glance.

It is him, unfortunately—and suddenly you feel the need to hide your stash, tossing the tin box in the cheap plastic chair you bought when you first moved in. Tucking yourself away as you light the joint and bring it to your lips.

He’s being surprisingly noisy, chair scuffing the deck as he moves it around and you look at him curiously from across the way, a fence and several feet of grass dividing you both. You can see the mug clutched in his right hand and his left hand filled with a few various things. A phone, for sure—lighting up in his hand before he lays it on the table beside him, lifting a leg over the lounge chair in a straddle-like motion before he sits down.

And he does seem like a smoker, not that you have proof or theory—it was just the vibe, but as he lights the item in his hand and takes a slow drag you quickly realize there's not an ounce of nicotine in sight. It’s clear when he catches your gaze and his brow furrows slightly, noting the similar item tucked between your own fingers and you can’t help but laugh to yourself.

You don’t say a word. Neither does he. But, he does offer a weak smile when you grab the tin box from the chair, nodding in acknowledgement. Your entire body flutters to life for some weird reason that you will absolutely blame on the THC obscuring rational thought.

Thankfully, sleep comes easy after that.

–

But, it doesn’t stay that way.

Most of the time you stay tucked inside, especially on the days and nights when the heat wasn’t as ablaze as usual, but there is usually a day or two out of the week where you find yourself outside—sometimes you lounge, or pace, but it never fails that the moment you step foot outside your backdoor, Joel does too.

Once a week, rarely twice—though it does happen, both of you find yourself in quiet submission as you smoke and enjoy the peace, even with the constant click of crickets and lighting bugs that seem attracted to both of your houses, flying around your backyard in a small swarm.

And you wanted to keep your distance, not wanting to impose on his space but your two months into these unspoken nightly meetings when your cheap lighter finally decides to shit itself, offering nothing but dull sparks against your overworked thumb, trying and failing to light the end of the joint.

Joel had been watching, an amused smile growing on his face as you cursed and tossed the lighter into your yard out of frustration—you’d grab it later, whatever. Eventually you sigh, giving up on it for the night and turning to pack away your stuff before Joel is calling over to you from his side of the fence, heart dropping into your stomach at the sound of his voice.

“I got a light,” He offers, “if you’re interested?”

It’s definitely a question. A proposition. An offering.

You scratch at your brow and hesitate for a millisecond, not giving yourself enough time to debate your answer before you’re mumbling “Fuck it,” and taking the path down the steps and to the gate that separated your yards, watching as he stepped toward you all in the same breath, feeling so much more intimidating this close—the smell of him, musky and sweet. His hair was wet, too.

He took a shower, got dressed, and immediately decided to step back out into the humid heat of Texas summer.

You pluck the lighter from his grip with a soft tug, flicking open the top. It was a good lighter, not the crappy three-pack you bought at the gas station down the road—it was chrome, engraved with a JM, and soft to the touch. You admire it for half a second before you attempt to light the end of your joint, still tucked between your lips.

But, as fate would have it, you make a fool of yourself. It wasn’t that you couldn’t get it lit, but that the wind was being your worst enemy in a situation where you just wanted to smoke the goddamn joint and go to bed.

Joel puffs at the joint between his lips and breathes out the smoke through his nose before he huffs out a low laugh and nods in your direction, reaching his arms over the fence and beckoning with his fingers for you to hand the lighter back over. You nearly go cross-eyed as his hands come toward your face—much larger than your own and far better at keeping the flame strong, he peeks around his cupped palm and waits for the end to turn a bright orange before he pulls away and you eagerly pull the smoke into your lungs.

“Thank you,” You tell him, rubbing your bare feet into the grass beneath you, patchy and poorly cut from your own mow job, but you were working the best with what you had—even if it was an ancient lawn mower you snagged at a garage sale that only worked half of the time.

You didn’t like to ask for help, hated it. But, here you were, taking help from a stranger.

Well, neighbor.

It didn’t feel fair to call him a stranger anymore, even if you’ve only spoken a little under ten words to him.

“No problem, sugar,” Joel responds and your cheeks burn with heat, that distinct nervousness spreading throughout your body that couldn’t be mistaken with anything else, “curious, though—you ain’t ever thought about investin' in a good lighter?”

You shrug, tapping away the ash gently with your fingertip and taking another puff, “Why? My neighbor’s got a perfectly good one himself?”

Joel raises his brows in unison and smiles slightly, he laughs. It’s more of a lazy chuckle.

“I… have more. I just lose them a lot. Besides, they’re only like ten bucks a pack.”

You’re waiting for him to cut the conversation short and walk back to his chair, but he finds himself leaning, arms tucked and crossed over the fence, oblivious to how daunting this felt to you—the man you’ve been so helplessly curious about for months suddenly standing in front of you and interested, unbothered…not at all what you expected from him.

“Thanks for constantly moving my trash bins,” You tell him randomly, blowing the smoke out through your lips as you tilt your chin up, “I always forget.”

Joel makes a face, wordlessly offering an “I know,” with his eyes and you roll yours in return, following it with a laugh as you pop a hip out slightly, leaning most of your weight onto one leg and crossing your arms over your chest, suddenly remembering how bare you were under your thin top, assuming you’ve probably already given him quite the show already.

Though, Joel seems like the type of man to be nice enough not to point it out.

You perk up suddenly, asking the first thing that comes to mind.

"Can I ask a question?"

Joel nods.

“What’s the JM stand for? On your lighter.”

“Sweetheart,” The laugh shakes his entire chest, “come on now.”

From sugar to sweetheart—you were clearly making quite the impression on him.

When you don’t respond he answers your question.

“Joel. Miller. I figured that was obvious,” He says, stubbing out the end of his joint into the wood on his side of the fence.

“Oh.”

“It’s on the mailbox.”

Curious, you leave him for a brief moment to slip through the side gate of your yard and….yeah, sure enough.

“I swear I’m not always like this,” You tell him as you make your way back over, forcing away the smile that was creeping its way onto your face.

“Too bad,” He responds, carding fingers through his still slightly damp hair before running his open palm over his beard, scratching at his chin, “s’pretty entertaining.”

“O-kay,” You answer, sarcasm smothering your tone, “I think it’s my bedtime, Joel Miller.”

“Goodnight then,” He bows his head slightly, “neighbor.”

The tone of it makes you snort with a soft laugh, flipping him off as you depart.

Suddenly, Joel Miller doesn’t seem all that scary.

–

The next week is suspiciously quiet, to your surprise. You’ve opted out of keeping yourself inside now that you had a friend to keep you company, but when he doesn’t show up after a few minutes, you can’t explain why you feel disappointed.

Next week is the same, his house suspiciously dark.

You can’t pass judgment—he could be busy, tired, or there could be no reason at all.

But, the need in you is there—for what, you’re not even sure.

By the third week you’re ready with a peace offering, a truce.

That night his lights are on and he’s even moving around, somewhere in his kitchen you’re assuming, but instead of sneaking out into the backyard you’re crossing over your front lawn and into his, seemingly fresh mowed and smelling of wet grass, having been under mostly rain showers all night and you knock at his door.

You don’t realize you’re holding your breath until the door opens and you smile at the sight of him, sleep pants hanging low on his hips and his shirt slightly raised by his stomach. He looks exhausted, eyes puffy with sleep as he rubs at them with his knuckles, but he doesn’t look displeased at the sight of you—in fact, he almost smiles in response.

One rolled joint in your left hand, a second in your right. It’s a wordless gesture that makes Joel scoff in amusement and nod you inside of his home. His home. That you’ve never seen until now. You were in his house and it was the most casual thing in the world. You don’t linger for long, following him toward the sliding door to his backyard but the place feels…homey. Lived in. So much unlike your own and disorganized in a way that showed years of age and memories, pictures scattered along the walls and years of personal crafts that you couldn’t examine for as long as you wished.

“Sorry I disappeared,” He acknowledges the unasked question, even though it lingered on your tongue, “—got a huge job at work, getting the site ready has been a pain in my ass.”

You share the lounge chair, taking a seat against the part of the chair that was propped up while Joel opts for the end, giving you a comfortable amount of space to stretch out if you wanted but also, and maybe instinctively, trying not to pressure you into feeling like you had to share space with him.

“Can I ask?”

Like a goddamn broken record, Joel chuckles at that. Full and genuine as he lights the end of the joint and wordlessly helps you, the same cupping motion of his hands that you welcome this time, almost eagerly.

“Ya gotta stop askin’ that,” Joel says, “especially when you’re just gonna ask anyways.”

Well.

“I’m a carpenter. Long hours, got a bad sleep schedule ‘cause of it. Pays good, though.”

“Oh, that’s…”

“Not interesting at all, I know.”

“No—no, I mean. I don’t know what I was expecting you to say. That sounds…fun?”

“If you think busted knuckles and an achy back is fun—but I’m old, can’t really escape that.”

You laugh under your breath and inhale the joint between your lips, blowing it out as you speak.

“You are not old, Joel. Come on.”

“I’ve got two fully grown daughters in college and a 401k callin’ my name in about a decade.”

“So, what? Fifty five? Fifty six? You can do better than that.”

“You’re a little shit, you know that?”

You shrug at him, a satisfied smirk stretching over your face.

It’s a back and forth game you play for a while—nights spent at his house where you bicker back and forth, offering snacks and occasionally getting the royal treatment of dinner or a late-night breakfast if Joel was feeling too antsy to sleep.

He never flirts, really. Despite how you don’t cover up around him for his own sake, always showing up in your sleep clothes that barely allowed for any modesty or the summer clothes that clung to your body and hugged your curves, allowing his eyes to trace and outline all over your figure as much as he wanted to—and sometimes he did, catching his gaze on you for a brief moment before it fades.

But, the first crack in his hard facade comes over a late night meal of pancakes and bacon, grabbing the blueberries from his fridge as he fries the meat on the stove, his elbow bumping the fridge door and knocking the small plastic box of blueberries out of your hand and to the floor, a surprised yelp coming from your throat as you scramble to catch them all.

“Shit, shit—I’m sorry, that was my fault.” You apologize, picking at the blueberries that didn’t make it, shoveling them into your hand and Joel leans down slowly, kneeling as he scoops the tainted blueberries into his own hand and dumps them in the trash.

“My bad, baby—that was on me,” It flows off his tongue with ease and if he realizes he’s said it, he doesn’t acknowledge it, “damn grease popped at me—go on, sit down. I’ll clean the rest up and we can use up what’s left.”

You both enjoy your meal without a blip, not daring to address the slip-up—he peppers you with sugars and sweethearts and the occasional honey when you get a little too combative over a topic, but never baby.

The second time is less surprising and more of a comfort, if you’re being honest with yourself.

Again, struggling with his lighter—this time your hand is holding one of those sparklers you haven’t touched since you were a child—leftovers from the bunch that Sarah and Ellie, his two daughters had brought home over the holiday. You never came over, despite his insisting invitation and running into his brother Tommy on the way home the night prior to the Fourth of July. He'd insisted too.

It just won’t light—and Joel had made the mistake of getting a few of them wet when he’d cleaned off his deck that night and suddenly you’re wondering it’s just a dud.

You hover the flame, mind drifting as you watch the flame grow and you don’t realize you’re burning yourself until Joel is pulling the items from your hands, dropping you back down into reality as you feel the sting, the sudden burn to your thumb as Joel says something that you don’t quite hear at first.

“Sweetheart, you gotta pay attention—“

You look up at him meekly and he pulls you inside with a nod of his, turning on the cold water and pulling your hand under the stream.

“Where’d you go?”

You raise your eyebrows in question, the lingering high drifting off from earlier in the night.

“Oh—just, kinda spaced out, I guess?”

Joel rubs his thumb over yours gingerly and turns off the water, grabbing you a clean washcloth stuffed with a couple pieces of ice to soothe the burn for the time being.

“Baby, you really gotta be more careful.”

Your head snaps over to him as he threw a damp paper towel into the trash and watches the sudden realization cross your face—looking for uneasiness, fear, worry; but in an instant, your body relaxes and you shake your head.

“I promise. It won’t happen again.”

You see the way his lips part slightly, almost as if he’s gearing to add a, “Me too,” for a different reason, but it never comes.

Near the end of summer, you find yourself there again.

But, things feel different.

“So, I’ve got a surprise.”

Joel leans up at your words, arm resting over his knees as you plop the bag down on the table beside the chair—Joel looks slightly worried, eyes flicking toward you and back at the bag.

“Don’t tell me you’ve never tried edibles.”

“It’s not really my thing, sugar—”

“Joel, you’ve been smoking longer than I’ve been alive.”

“Now, you know that don’t mean a damn thing.”

You shake your head in fake dismay, slipping your hand into the bag to grab a few pieces.

One for him…a couple for you.

“Aren’t those supposed to be pretty strong?”

You shrug, “I think it depends. Person to person. I’ve never tried these before, but I’ve never had a bad trip, so…”

Joel’s eyes linger, finger poking at the small, cube gummy in your hand like a child discovering a new toy.

“Hey, we’re doing this together,” You offer as a half-assed comfort, “so if it sucks, it’ll suck for both of us.”

Joel doesn’t seem to need much convincing, though. He plucks the gummy from your palm and places it on his tongue, watching as you do the same and you chew, settling back on your palms at the end of the chair, feet outstretched and crossed in front of you as you stare up at the sky.

It was a Waxing Gibbous moon, not quite full but nearly there—it hovered over Joel’s house, just enough light to illuminate the space between you two. And you wait in comfortable silence aside from the low hum of music playing inside Joel’s house, dark inside now that he had turned off all the lights as you had followed him outside.

He always spent more time out here with you than he intended nowadays.

By a half hour, you find the idle conversation quickly divulges into things more obscure, your gaze lingering on the sky longer than you realize and Joel speaks to you softly, your heart pounding slowly in your ears.

“It ain’t going nowhere.”

You turn to him slightly, blinking a few times before you realize what he’s referring to.

“Oh. Well, obviously. It’s just pretty. I could stare at it all night.”

“Can’t blame you,” Joel responds, but his eyes are nowhere near the sky.

Oblivious, your gaze lingers upwards still, leaning back so far on your hands you feel yourself slip and yelp, only caught by Joel’s hands nearly a second short of a serious head injury.

“Come here,” Joel beckons, fingers wrapping around your bicep as he pulls you forward until your back is against his chest and he allows you to lean into him, feeling him clear his throat behind you as he keeps his hands a respectable distance despite how easily he’d move you into this position to begin with.

Commendable? Sure. Frustrating? Absolutely.

If you couldn’t feel the hard, solid line of his body at your backside it wouldn’t bother you so much. And the heat of his body, scolding to the touch like a furnace. He ran hot, that much you already knew just by a few faint touches before but this—it overwhelms your senses.

You try to distract yourself, noticing the carved out wooden statue of a cowboy riding a horse while it was rearing back, you squint your eyes before perking up with a sudden question.

“Where’d you get that?”

“Get what?”

You giggle slightly, tapping at his arm to grab his attention before you point in the direction of the statue placed by the stairs, “That thing.”

“Oh, that—I…made it.” He looks away with a sudden embarrassment as you quickly twist your head up to look at him in complete and utter shock—he scrunches his face up and dares to take a peek at you from his peripheral and his face heats up when he sees you looking so rapt.

“Joel, that is insanely fucking good.”

“Sweetheart—”

“Don’t sweetheart me,” You mock his tone, “how long did that take to make?”

Joel tries to think—it’s been years now. Sarah was barely out of grade school and he had just adopted Ellie, it was all a blur anymore with both of the girls in college now.

“A month, on and off between jobs. It’s just a piece of junk, really.”

“Joel, shut up.”

Joel can’t hold back the even bigger laugh that escapes him at your bluntness.

“It’s just a hobby.”

“A hobby you seem to be really fuckin’ good at.”

Joel shrugs and you decide to leave it be, relaxing back into his chest more comfortably, though his arm lingers more closely to your body, fingertips resting against your bicep that slowly start to move on their own, whether by Joel’s own conscious movements or just by nature of seeking touch. It’s a gentle trace, it tickles and you shrug your arm slightly to which he responds with a gentle squeeze.

By the hour mark you find that Joel hates when you ask about his statues or some of the homemade structures in his backyard—littered throughout along with an old playhouse that you can only assume belonged to his daughters, much outgrown and covered in vines and weeds, intertwined through cracks in the wood.

He hates it so much he actually tries to distract you with something else. Anything.

Unfortunately, nothing really works. So, he changes gears completely.

“What’s with the sundress tonight?” Joel asks suddenly, the playful lilt to his voice hidden behind a sudden need for authority over the situation. “Gettin’ all dolled up in the middle of the night.”

“It’s new,” You say with an eagerness, rubbing your finger over the silk fabric of the dress, “do you like it?”

“You really askin’ my opinion?”

Of course. I bought it for you.

“Do you have one?” You say instead.

“It’s nice,” He runs his pointer finger and thumb over the strap on your left shoulder that slips down, lingering against your skin as his palm covers the expanse of it.

His touch feels far away but so intense, head swirling with thoughts you can’t follow—there’s a primal need there, though. And you can’t tell if he feels it too. If it’s just the weed in your system or if it’s weeks and weeks of built up tension boiling over the edge.

This is the closest Joel has allowed you to be—he’s relaxed, his barriers are down and the hand lingering on your elbow is careful but explorative, his fingers trailing to the middle of your chest, flipping the small silver necklace around your neck under his fingertips, feeling so delicate. More importantly, he feels your heart, stretching the palm out wide and over your skin.

“Y‘alright?”

You nod and shuffle your feet, planting them on the end of the chair as you pull your knees up, the dress falling just at the apex of your thighs, barely allowing any modesty and if you spread your thighs even a half inch—

Joel breaks his eyes away, watching the slow rise and fall of your chest despite your rapidly beating heart.

“That heart of yours is racin’, sugar. Are you sure?”

Again, you nod. But, the subtle shift against him forces his fingers lower as you adjust yourself higher, ass pressed right against his groin and it does no favor for Joel, who’s fingers dip just below the fabric of your dress in the process, grazing down the center of your chest.

“You nervous or something?”

Nervous, no. Joel didn’t make you nervous anymore. The heat between your legs told you otherwise, and the need for touch was impossible to ignore and maybe just for a moment—just a second, you could let him. It would solve this ridiculous ache that had grown between your legs.

Joel seems so in tune with you and he sees the way your eyes are locked on his hand, unmoving but the half of his fingers tucked under the top of your dress.

“You don’t make me nervous, Joel.”

That wasn’t necessarily the question—and suddenly, you realize your misstep, looking up at him suddenly to catch the intense look on his face, almost like he was anticipating your gaze. His bottom lip is slightly parted from his top, face flush from the summer heat but his eyes are dark, follow the path of your face until it lands on his hand and then he speaks.

“What is it then?”

The way you press your thighs together at the sound of his voice, low and heated, spoken behind a gaze that made you feel small but admired.

Touch me. Make it better.

You don’t say it, it’s only a thought.

But, Joel is a mind reader. He never leaves your sight, but his hand moves on its own accord and squeezes your breast gently. His rough and calloused palm is a stark contrast over soft skin and if you would have made any sign of not wanting this, he would’ve pulled away.

Instead, your chest cants under his touch and your head nods without an answer to his question, because he already knew.

“Lemme see ‘em, sweetheart,” It takes little effort to pull the straps down your shoulders, his other hand pushing the fabric just below your breasts, allowing them free and Joel makes a soft, low noise behind you as he covers your chest with both hands, thumbs grazing over your nipples as they pebble under his touch, “that feel better?”

Not good. Not alright. Better—was he helping you? Was he soothing that ache he’d created?

“Y-Yeah, yes.”

He’s just as curious, squeezing the flesh in hands and occasionally letting his finger trace down your abdomen as your dress shifts and shifts until it’s barely a means to keeping your modesty over your lap, hands pressed down at the space beside Joel’s hips as you push yourself up until your head is nearly level with his, his hands squeezing your tits together as you sigh. He hooks his chin over you shoulder and watches, your eyes falling shut as you lean your head back.

“You need more?” He asks, “Tell me, baby—I’m right here.”

The baby rings through your head like a warning bell.

Once was an accident, twice a coincidence, three times…

Stop it. Stop it now and you won’t have to face the awkwardness after your high wore off and you both had a night to sleep and think and regret—but you find yourself nodding anyway.

Why was Joel any different from a random hookup? Other than being your neighbor, slowly coming to what you consider to be a friend, crumbling apart before you as he hikes your dress up over your hips and grips it tight.

You nod to his question.

“Take those off,” He speaks over your shoulder and you don’t need persuading, fingers hooking into the underwear clinging to your hips and down, over your ankles as you kick them away and almost instantly Joel’s hands are on your knees, spreading you wide, his palms squeezing at the inside of your thigh, “shit, look at that—“

He dips a finger down the center of your pussy, through the slick pool of accumulated pleasure and pulls away, shiny and glistening against his fingertips as he breathes against the shell of your ear, “All that just from me touchin’ you?”

You could answer—keep dragging out this game of cat and mouse that had started between you but instead you reach for his hand, placing it against your cunt as he cups it with his palm, dragging the two middle most fingers up and down the seam, circling over your clit briefly before they’re plunging inside of you with ease, aided by just how wet you were—your pussy throbs around his fingers.

Words are few and far between outside of the soft, mewling noises you make into the side of his face as your arm comes up and wraps around the back of his neck, yanking at the short hair at his nape and dragging your mouth along his cheek as you breath out in short huffs, his other hand coming down to circle at your clit with no preamble—straight for the kill and eager without saying it.

His grip is heavy, forceful as his fingers pump in and out of you pussy with little care, the soft squelch of your arousal around his fingers forcing the heat to climb to your face and you feel his jeans rutting into the backside, desperate for relief just as much as you but too selfless to speak up about it.

And you feel the crest in your chest, eyes squeezing shut as your pussy flutters around his fingers, a shout that is quickly muffled by Joel’s hand as it covers your mouth, the fingers still buried inside of you and working you through the aftershocks as he shushes you gently. Your body feels like it’s vibrating, legs shaking slightly as he removes his fingers and squeezes tenderly at the inside of your thigh, feeling the dampness from his fingers spread over your skin before they’re climbing their way up your body, along your skin until he’s bringing them to his mouth silently and cleaning them up like he’d made a mess of his meal, your eyes widen at the sight and you feel overtaken, flooded with desire that you can’t sit and suffer with any longer.

“Knew I was right in callin’ you sugar,” He teases, catching your face in between his fingers as you turn to kneel between his legs, “so damn sweet.”

His fingers tap at his thighs, rough denim under his fingertips to match his overworked, weathered hands and you can’t help but admire, knowing they had been buried inside of you a few moments ago and you bow your head, popping the button of Joel’s jeans as he casually reaches for your hips, kneading the muscle of your thighs as he watches, helping you situate his jeans far enough down his own thighs that you can slip your hands past his boxers, straining against the weight of his cock, hard and aching as it reached up toward his stomach.

“Sweetheart, you don’t have to,” He tells you, but you scoff slightly in amusement, not wanting to know how frazzled you look, half-lidded and bloodshot eyes under the moonlight, bare aside from the newly bought dress at your waist and Joel is most definitely still staring at your tits, his eyes dragging up to your face a few seconds too late, “I’m guessin’ we should of talked through this first but I just wanted to make you feel good—”

“You think I feel obligated?” Your eyebrow raises up slightly before you’re pulling his boxer down just enough that his cock springs out, bobbing away from his stomach slightly and you only allow yourself half a second to react.

He’s big, from root to tip you know it is the biggest you’ve ever had and you’re waiting for the cocky remark, the begging for compliments and thoughts that you hear so often during these halfway thought out hook-ups but this wasn’t that. It was weeks of build up, the tension line snapping under the weight of your unspoken desire for each other.

“Joel—”

“Don’t go boostin’ my ego,” He chuckles, “—not you, baby.”

You laugh softly and dip your head, feeling his hand curve over and through your hair, down your neck before it settles against the middle of your back and he brushes the stray hair from your face, allows his finger to rest behind your ear as you tilt your head and lick a long stripe up his cock, flicking your eyes up briefly to catch him staring, mouth closed and unnaturally stoic for a moment, like he’s holding his breath.

“Show me,” You plead with him, “whaddya like?”

You move down slightly to roll your tongue along his balls, the weight of it in your mouth as you suckle and feel his fingertips scrape gently along your skin, allowing a few moments of your own exploration before he’s wrapping his hand around his shaft and using the other to grip your chin and rubbing the tip against your half-open mouth, forcing a dribble of spit between your lips and letting it trail down the tip before he feeds his cock into your mouth, tongue spreading flat over the underside and keeping him in your eye-line before it’s nearly impossible, feeling him guide you down until his cock nudges the back of your throat with a slight sting, eyes watering.

“Look at that,” His voice is low, gruff as it rumbles in his chest, “makin’ it all fit in that pretty little moutha’ yours.”

You quickly realize that Joel enjoys watching you feel consumed by him, choking on his cock as your head bobs up and down with fervor, a gentle guiding hand against the back of your head as you breathe through your nose, feeling him nudge the back of your throat over and over and over until you find yourself fighting for air and oblivious to the symphony of curses Joel was spewing above you as his neck was tight, straining as he tipped his own head back against the chair.

And he looks too fucking good to pass up on. You rise, pulling at the collar of his shirt to grab his attention and his eyes open wide, his pupils blown out and dilated as he watches you move, biting at your bottom lip as you shuffled your legs over his hips to straddle him.

“Can you fuck me?”

“Can I—sweetheart, you sure?”

You give him a look of flippant disregard, too impatient to pace through the steps of sureness. But, Joel is focused suddenly, pulling your attention to him as his palm finds your face, cradling your cheek and rubbing his thumb over the shape of your lips.

“Don’t give me that look,” He tells you.

“Yes, Joel.” You answer him impatiently, “I just—I mean I don’t have anything, but…”

“You ain’t gotta worry about that,” Joel chuckles, “been out of commission for a while, sugar.”

You can’t help to release the giggle that bubbles in your chest at that.

He’d had kids, a family at some point—but that wasn’t his life now. He was a renewed bachelor, experiencing all the things he’d put on the back-burner to be a good and proper father. While this hadn’t been at the top of his list, or even anywhere on it really, you can see the happy satisfaction on his face with how comfortable he’s grown in the time you’ve gotten to know one another.

“Can’t tell,” You comment slyly as you lift up on your knees, allowing Joel to shift his jeans further down until they’re bunched sloppily at his ankles.

Joel rolls his eyes fondly, “Go on, baby.”

He watches, eyes following your hand as you grip his cock at the base, rubbing it along the center of your cunt, gliding through messy arousal and finding some excitement in the way he squeezes at your thighs a little too hard, fingers curling around the back of your knee as the head of his cock catches against your clit, again, again, barely allowing him to press inside of you until finally, a few harsh pleas balancing on his tongue that quickly dissipate as you sink down onto him inch by suffocating inch.

You breathe out slowly, watching Joel as he watches you, his eyes locked on the sight of his cock as it settles inside of you, only allowing the slow, gentle rock of your hips as you adjust.

His stomach flexes under your touch, fisting your hands into his shirt and lifting it out of the way before Joel gets the hint and strips himself completely, kicking his jeans off weakly as you sigh, squeezing gently as his shoulders and feeling his hands grip at your backside, into the soft flesh of your cheeks and you strip the wrinkled fabric over your head, tossing it somewhere behind Joel’s head as you fingers grip along the edge the bar of the chair above his head, lifting your hips in time with his movements as he keeps a firm hand on you, allowing soft puffs of groans to fall from his lips as your tits bounce with the frantic movement and Joel leans forward, capturing the side of your breast between his teeth, a gentle bite that causes you to squeak.

It’s quickly soothed by his tongue before he flicks it over your nipple, circling the peaked and pebbled nub before he’s sucking it between his teeth, eyes locking on yours from the depraved angle it allows you, still able to spot the few shining grays of his hair in this light. You card your fingers through his hair and arch your chest into his mouth, “J-Joel, maybe we should move this inside.”

He shakes his head, mouth still stuffed full with you as you moan out loudly when he smacks your ass in one gentle but solid swing and you want to blame his boldness on the dwindling drug in your system, but somehow you come to the conclusion that it was just Joel, unbridled and wanting. Of you.

“Not a chance in hell, sweetheart,” Joel disagrees as he pulls back, “no one gives a damn ‘round here, anyways.”

“Says you,” You laugh weakly, whimpering softly as he snaps his hips into you with sudden force, his hand reaching for the back of your neck to urge you forward, forgoing your body for your lips and it’s more intense than anything else going on around you—his cock stuffed inside of you, the fingers on your skin, it didn’t matter for that brief second of a first touch, kissing you sloppily as you moan into each other’s shared space.

“Well, I do—got this one neighbor,” He jokes, “nosey as shit but damn is she a good fuckin’ time.”

You gasp as he pulls you close, free arm wrapping around your back as he slips his tongue past your lips, using the opportunity as your lips part to devour you in an instant and you pull at the stands of his hair in turn, kissing him back with a harsh pressure that begs for more.

“M’not nosey,” You defend lamely, “just—fuck, curious, ya know?”

“Thank god for that,” Joel sighs, and your pussy flutters before squeezing around him, “oh, fuck baby—do that... do that again.”

You do, teasingly, watching as Joel curses under his breath and leans back, watching you move against him without shame, a hand pressing against your stomach to guide you to lean back slightly, “Look at that, sweetheart—makin’ a goddamn mess on me.”

The short, coarse hair at his groin is wet and sure enough, covered in the messy slick of you and mixed with the thin sheen of sweat that had covered both of your bodies in this sticky heat.

“You like the idea of gettin’ high and letting me fuck you?” Joel questions amongst the pound of your heart in your ears, the heat of his gaze quickly driving you toward the edge again. He chuckles, “Dirty—dirty girl. Was that what you’ve been plannin’ since the beginning?”

“Would’ve let you fuck me either way,” You admit, only a half-truth. You weren’t sure if you’d ever pluck up the courage had Joel not made the first move, but you’re damn sure glad he did anyways, “and with a cock like that, god—”

“Easy,” Joel warns, “givin’ me a complex the way you were looking at it.”

“It’s big, Joel.” You admit, pushing the stray hair that had fallen down over his forehead away and back into this messily quaffed hair, “You like knowing I can barely fit it all in my mouth, don’t—don’t act coy about it.”

He’s not—he’d been more than willing to allow you to choke on the girth of him until you begged for mercy, but given his normally gentle nature with you, he wasn’t going to take it that far.

Your brow drags up in a pinch, moaning as his thumb presses against your clit and circles, presses down gently, just the right amount of everything to drive you to near insanity. Your thighs squeeze against his own where he has you spread out, hands balled up into fists that punch gently at his chest.

“You’re right there, baby—gotcha, I gotcha.” He murmurs, watching you intently as you grip at the arm wrapped around your back to keep you upright, fingers digging into his bicep as you tip over the edge, legs shaking through the second orgasm he’s given you that night, squeezing your eyes shut so hard you start to see the flurry of stars in your darkened vision.

Your limbs give out shortly after, falling against his chest as he snaps his hips, just near the edge himself as he groans, grunts, breathing hotly into the curve of your neck and you rub at the little spot behind his ear that makes him chuckle, “Want it all inside,” You tell him through a cloud haze of need and pure desire, “can you do that, Joel?”

“Fill you up, sugar?” He asks, sounding a little taken aback, “If that’s—if that’s somethin’ you’re comfortable with.”

You nod eagerly and he loosens the reins completely, lifting one of your legs until you can plant a foot near his hip and he pounds into you, pulling back when he feels the impending orgasm grow in his gut, hot and intense. He watches as he comes inside of you with a few slow snaps of his hips.

“Shit,” He curses after a drawn-out silence, helping you move off of him and into a more comfortable position between his legs as he grabs lazily for his shirt, cleaning up the mess of your wet arousal against his skin and letting the spoiled shirt rest over his groin for modesty, breathing in slow, full breaths.

It’s been too long for him and he knows it.

Joel reaches for the dress that caught on the edge of the chair by his head and hands it over, watching as you slipped it over your head, legs still spread out over his own and he can’t help but draw his eyes to the sight of his come dripping out between your legs and he grins subtly, motioning you forward with a tired finger that you look at curiously before scooting forward an inch, thinking he may wipe something of your face, arrange a piece of hair back into place, but instead he’s slipping his ring finger inside of you and it forces a surprised gasp from your chest.

You laugh airily and swat his hand away, “Stop that,” You tell him.

“Just makin’ sure you don’t waste any of it, sweetheart.”

You snort, flipping him off half-heartedly as you reach for your underwear, standing up to pull it back up your hips and under your dress, swaying slightly on your feet after having been sat for so long.

You sigh, pushing your hair back with your hands, suddenly feeling sticky and gross in the aftermath and Joel seems to notice, slowly redressing himself as he stands.

“Why don’t you shower?” Joel suggests, leaving his jeans unbutton but pulled back up his hips. Shirt balled up in his hand.

You look geared to say no, but Joel sweetens the deal.

He looks at his watch, nearing two in the morning.

“I’ll make us an early breakfast,” He offers, shrugging with a lazy smile, “I mean—early early, because I know you’re probably starvin’. I know I am.”

“Only if you’ll make the blueberry pancakes.”

Of course that was the ultimatum.

“Deal, sugar—go get your ass in the shower.” He nods toward the house and you laugh, running away from the hand that pushes at your back.

So, maybe Joel wasn’t the scary neighbor you assumed him to be. But, you couldn’t deny the bursting affection that was growing in your chest for him and that was even more terrifying.

And when he serves up the pancakes to you, hair damp and dripping down your back and onto the shirt he’d lent you, a small square of pancake balanced on a fork that he feeds into your mouth, you feel it.

He's still shirtless, barefoot against his kitchen floor.

“We can—we can do this again, right?”

Joel smiles, looking down at the plate as he cuts off another piece.

“I’ve been waitin’ an entire summer to get the courage to do that, or even ask you on a proper date—we can do whatever you want, sugar.”

“Dates are overrated,” You shrug, “I like this better.”

“Good,” Joel grins, “least now I can mow that lawn of yours without feelin’ bad for asking.”

“Excuse you—I do just fine on my own,” You gasp with mock offense.

You’re lying—that mower was a piece of shit and Joel could see the way your face quickly melts into embarrassment, laughing quietly behind his fist.

“I like helpin’ out,” He tells you with a shrug, beginning to list off a few things he could help work on around your house, eyes drifting off as he went through the mental list, oblivious to the sudden closeness as you leaned over the counter and capture his lips, closed mouth with both of your cheeks puffed full of pancakes.

“You ramble when you’re high,” You tease him, “it’s adorable.”

Joel grimaces at the word but relents when he sees you smile, wide and spreading out across your entire face, snatching the fork from his hand while he’s distracted.

“So, same time next week?”

“Deal, sweetheart.”

Joel doesn’t care that you show up empty-handed the following week.

And frankly, neither do you.

divider creds: @saradika-graphics

#joel miller #joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #joel miller x y/n #joel miller smut #the last of us #the last of us fanfiction #tlou fanfiction #pedro pasca #pedro pascal characters #my writing #um i have no reason other than pure horknee-ness

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leclsrc · 1 year

Text

do you want it? ✴︎ cs55

genre: summer love!!!, slight age gap, porn w plot basically...

word count: 10.5k

Whatever preconceived notions you have about your summer at the beach house are all toppled over when your parents announce the arrival of a guest, who happens to be your dad's friend. title from this

auds here… hiii :) req'd by several people! few notes... carlos is aged up a tad, the age gap is 21/33 so not too bad (i aged him up bc the age gap was 7 yrs and i was like. Huh. thats tame). if ur not into that (tho everything is consensual and reader is legal) its ok! anyway im sorry this came so late i had like 6 anons asking ab carlos and lana haha. also big thanks to dani whose work got me thru 4 writing ruts

nsfw warnings under the cut!

18+ because... sexual tension, penetrative sex, dry humping, oral sex (m and f receiving), deepthroating, semi public sex ish?, praise central, size kink, like a flash of spit kink sorry..., overuse of the term good girl

Half past noon and after a particularly snappy call from his manager, Carlos bites the bullet on summer plans and decides to accept what is arguably the least glamorous offer on his roster. By no means a dazzling standout, the offer to stay at a family friend’s house in Comporta seems to be the most comfortable option—besides, he doesn’t feel himself to be in the glitzy mood for cities like Los Angeles or Monaco.

Lando, beside him, is thus the first to get wind of the news that “grumpy old man” Carlos will not be accompanying him to the ultimate, tequila-flavored “summer extravaganza” in Morocco.

“You’re boring,” Lando moans, pacing the room. Outside, London’s skyline moves passively. Carlos hangs up his phone call with his assistant, receives a picture of his flight details, and looks up amusedly.

“Portugal is not boring.”

“Morocco. DJs, drinks, girls.” Lando raises one hand. “Comporta. Family friends, apple cider, sand in your eyes.” He raises another hand a few inches lower. “See the difference?”

“I appreciate the difference.” Truth is, Carlos has needed this kind of quiet, calm time off for a while now. The season gets heavy and intense and tiring, and sometimes just staying by the beach with a beer is the best kind of reprieve.

“You’re getting old,” Lando says with a sour grimace. “Old.”

“That is,” Carlos says, searching for the word, “defamation.”

Lando shrugs, moves off the subject as he shoves a handful of crisps into his mouth. “Are you meeting family there?”

“No.” Both of his parents are out of the country for the next few weeks; Carlos was invited by his dad’s friend, though the bond they share is more friendly than just the standard uncle-nephew type of relationship, and they often refer to each other as just friends. “Just friends. Gallery owner and a company owner, I think.”

Lando whistles. “Rich.”

In response, Carlos nods. “And their daughter, who’s visiting from university in the States.” The details are fuzzy in his head, but the gist is about right.

“Sounds boring,” his friend snorts. “Come on, mate. You, me, Daniel. One last chance to watch Peggy Gou’s set and take shots and have fuuun.” He says the last part with the suave that would only rival a preteen’s.

Carlos, for a second, lets his resolve waver. Maybe it would be better watching loud DJ sets, dancing, getting all flushed with alcohol. But he blinks and shakes his head anyway. He hopes his decision is the right one, that summer in the beach house ends up being worth it. It’s a few weeks by the beach, anyway—what’s the worst that could happen?

—

Any recollection of your childhood almost instantly connects to the beach house in Comporta, big and wide and right by the coast. You spent fall, winter, and spring in a constant bumbling state of excitement to spend summer there. Your parents owned it, and often offered family friends to take up residence there when summers in the city got unbearable; for the most part, though, it was the three of you and, on rare years, a guest.

Your summers there have since smudged into the same few memories, of your mum and dad’s faces, of swimming and the learning curve of sailing, of bonfires by the beach on cold nights. And they have since become just that: memories. Summers grew sparse with time, and eventually the idea of meeting distant family friends became more embarrassing than exciting; by the time your parents moved you out of Europe for college, you’d lost almost all memory of the house.

So when your parents ask if you want to fly back to Comporta and spend a few “quiet” weeks there, you figure there’s no harm in seeing what the house is like and what summer can offer you beyond the weekly club outings. Instead of the usual quiet and overall lack-of-bustle that comes with summers, however, you open the front door to three housekeepers dusting every surface in your immediate eyesight.

“Are we hosting a wedding?” You ask when you find your parents tending to two sweaty glasses of champagne. You gesture faintly to the cleanfest inside. “What is going on?”

“We have a guest,” your mother says as she gets up to hug you tight. “Staying for the summer.”

“You said this summer would be quiet,” you deadpan, eyes narrowing underneath your sunglasses.

Your mum pinches your elbow. “I wasn’t lying,” she defends, raising her eyebrows. “Carlos’ son is coming.” She pats your arm. “You know? The race driver! He’s close with your father.” And, leaving no space for you to voice your dissent, she slips back into the house through the screen door, your father kissing your cheek then following suit. Your mouth parts, thoughts beginning to rush with implications of what your mother has just told you.

Carlos—if you’re correct—is Carlos Sainz, Sr., a good friend of your dad’s, and his son is Carlos Sainz, Jr., another good friend of your dad’s, because if there’s one thing rich Europeans do well, it’s the repetition of names. You’ve never met his son, only heard of him and seen a few pictures, but being so far detached from life here, you can’t even shape his face.

All you recall is the fact that he should now be thirty or older, which makes him rather older than you—and therefore effectively incapable of providing any break from any possible summer boredom. For fuck’s sake, he’s close to your dad. You’re at the top of the stairs when you hear the commotion by the front door, peeking at the foyer to catch a glimpse of him.

He’s solo, you observe; upon a glance into the front parking, you notice he’s driven here in a Ferrari, one a bit too modern for your taste but beautiful nevertheless. He carries only two pieces of luggage, and the sun blinds you for a moment before he’s finally at the doorframe, smiling politely, talking to your dad in casual Spanish.

He is, for lack of better word, insanely handsome. He wears a polo that shows off much of his arms, that flex as he puts down his luggage to shake hands with your parents; you follow the movement of his hands to watch one comb through his thick hair, then down to his smile, back up to his brown eyes, deep and so, so pretty.

Maybe this summer deserves a little less begrudge, you decide as you retreat back into your room, still brewing with residual annoyance.

Your parents send him off after a drink and a brief conversation, catch-up, tour of the downstairs area. Carlos knows his room is supposed to be upstairs, but the problem arises in the fact that there are two upstairs rooms and he doesn’t know which one he’s supposed to be staying in. Setting his luggage down for a minute, he knocks on the first door; permissive silence greets him for half a minute, so he turns the knob and prepares to enter.

To his surprise, he finds somebody already inside, a figure by the mirror on the other end of the room. What catches his eye is not the tiny skirt, but the half-tied bikini top currently being wound around two fingers at the centre of your back. You’re basically clothed, but Carlos can’t decide if he’s thankful or not—he doesn’t have time to when you catch him in the mirror and turn around quick, mouth agape.

“Can’t you knock?!” You ask, catty.

“I did—I knocked, but you—there was no answer,” he explains profusely. “I’m Carlos. Sorry, apologies. Truly.”

You introduce yourself. You’re his friend’s daughter, this and that, and you’re visiting from the States to spend summer here. He apologizes again when you finish.

“Well, seeing as though this is my room,” you shoot back, “that must be yours.” You gesture vaguely to the one down the hall. Amused and a little embarrassed, he mouths apologies as he closes the door.

Carlos exits, departs and doesn’t have time to take in the room before he’s facedown on the bed. Any sleepiness he’d collected from the trip over, from the day drinks, from the headache that’d been blooming at the temples of his head, has dissipated. His mind’s been imprinted with one image only, and it’s down the hall in a tiny skirt.

—

Lunch brings lemonade and pasta, two staples for every summer meal. You, however, find yourself hopelessly distracted by the presence of your guest, and despite your best efforts, the churn in your stomach disables you from fully enjoying the carbonara on the table. The conversation between Carlos and your dad ends up taking your attention instead. “So you’re racing again in a few weeks?”

“Sí,” Carlos nods in-between forkfuls. Then, to add, “Busy, busy times.”

“Well. It’s the worst of our days,” your mum says, a quote she picked up from—of all places—a BBC sitcom she watched to tears last winter. “You are a talented driver, Carlos. Very cultured. I’m sure you’ll enjoy Comporta.”

“I have not been around much,” he says; his gaze flutters over to his glass, which is devoid of water or lemonade. “Any recommendations?”

“A lot, cabrón. Our daughter will be happy to take you around,” your father says on your behalf. He turns to you. “Wouldn’t you?”

“Oh, sure,” you say, allowing a terse smile. “There’s some places around here that aren’t so boring. But that’s being generous.” Carlos laughs at your joke, raucous and goofy, and you would definitely be lying if you told yourself it didn’t get you blushing a little bit, eyes casting themselves to your still-full plate.

“While you’re here, Carlos,” your dad continues, “I have an old car in the garage that could use some looking at. Are you—would you know how to—?”

Carlos nods, accepting the favor—then the conversation naturally slides into one of cars and racing. Carlos chronicles his journey in Formula One, his Toro Rosso days back then when he was younger, his McLaren period, and now, his time representing Ferrari. He talks of pet peeves on the grid, annoyances but also praises for the sport.

“I’d appreciate the downtime, actually,” he explains, “that I’d get from working on a car instead of in one.” He laughs, eyes briefly meeting yours. He looks away, then looks again. He can’t help himself. He wonders if he’s being obvious, if you can tell the way his looks are anything but casual. “Can you pour me a glass?” He adds.

“Yeah,” you mutter, sitting straight to pour lemonade into his waiting glass. You meet his eyes and almost pour it over the pasta. The rest of the lunch is uneventful, a series of adult conversation you can’t seem to engage yourself in fully, and whether that’s because of personal preference or Carlos’ presence, you don’t make an effort to try.

“…ney. Honey.” Your mum’s voice distracts you from your thoughts; when you look up, half the table is clear and Carlos and your dad have ventured inside to deposit plates at the sink.

“Sorry. Wh—sorry, what?” You blink.

“Your father and I are heading out for the evening. Carlos will be working on the car. That okay, or you want to come along?”

“Um…” You pretend the latter is even an option before shaking your head. “No, I’ll stay.”

“Good.” She strokes your hair. “He could use the company.”

You follow her walking figure inside, where you station your eyes on Carlos. He’s sipping a lemonade. His eyes meet yours for a second and your face is outrageously flushed when you realize you’ve been caught staring, just like his had been earlier when he walked into your room.

—

You’re hellbent on solving a Sudoku puzzle when the dinner bell rings, and you have to finish it on the stairs. Your dad’s always been a stickler for arriving to dinner on time—every meal, but a gargantuan emphasis on the last—and you’ve been victim to scoldings about being five to six minutes late, an instance you don't wish to repeat.

9, you scribble, bare feet moving with speed through the living room, indoor dining room, then to the patio door. 4 comes next, your footsteps following the smell of grilled meat. 8, you write as you turn into the outdoor dining area. You’re halfway through 2 when you stop, look up, and find Carlos preparing dinner.

“Oh—” You pause. “You rang the dinner bell? Are my parents not…?”

“They are at a dinner,” says Carlos, eyes meeting yours briefly. It reminds you of earlier and you clear your throat, looking away. “So I hope my cooking is good enough.”

“It smells great,” you offer, seating yourself down and pouring a glass of wine. He sets the plate down—just-cut steak, a smear of potatoes. “Christ, you cook better than Dad.”

“I take that as a compliment,” he laughs, sitting across you. “Listen, I want to apologize for accidentally walking into your room earlier.”

Your face warms. “No, it’s okay. I was just surprised.”

“It was wrong of me. Let’s start over. I’m Carlos.” He reaches over to shake your hand, still standing. You take it, eyes flitting over his hand, spotting no glinting ring on his finger. With a saccharine smile, you assure him it was an honest mistake, so he segues into a different topic, the corners of his mouth turning up. “So, do you have an itinerary for me tomorrow?”

You hum, passing the wine over to him. “A bookstore, an ice cream parlor, and a bike ride. Anything else is seriously not worth it. You’ll have the next few weeks to explore town. If the house gets that boring.”

“I haven’t been bored so far,” he says, eyes glinting.

“Oh?”

“You know, with the car fixing.” He points vaguely to where the garage is. “But it’s only been a day.”

“Car fixing is boring,” you state matter-of-factly. “You’ll have fun tomorrow.” You cut into the steak and bite into the forkful you stab at, eyes fluttering.

“Good?” Carlos asks, smiling a little.

“I love it,” you mumble. “You’re so good at this, Carlos.”

Carlos retires to his room that night, and finds that today has held a collective motif of losing his shit. He’s anything but sleepy. Restless, wild-eyed, combing hand after hand through his hair. God, if he’d known you were this pretty—this hard to resist, on his first night here, no less—he would’ve been watching some DJ spin out a set with Lando right now.

Instead, he finds he can’t stop himself from thinking about you, the way your eyes had fluttered when he tried saying something on the edge of flirty. Your hair. Your hands, your fingers, lithe around the stem of your wine glass.

I love it, you’d said, you’re so good at this, Carlos. You knew exactly what you were doing, skittish tone putting him on edge. Despite himself, he can’t help but squeeze himself through his pants when he sits down on the edge of the bed, breathing heavy to purge himself of thoughts so low and dirty.

You’re so pretty. You’d be so easy to wreck, make his, goad little moans out of you, get your lips around him, puffy and pink and pretty. He wedges his eyes shut tight and hopes these thoughts will dissipate as the week passes.

Something tells him he’s wrong, though.

—

The tour is delayed because your dad insists he go fishing with Carlos three days in a row, but eventually (likely due to your mum’s insistence) it pushes through. You greet him with a smile, waiting by the door, wearing a sundress. Sundresses will definitely be his demise.

You’re a good tour guide, though, Carlos figures when you’re finished pointing at every turn and sign and dictating what goes where and where the passage to the coast is, when you’ve even quizzed him about where you are and where the house is supposed to be.

After he points in the correct direction, you nod approvingly. “That’s how my dad made sure I wouldn’t get lost,” you explain when he laughs at your choice of tour guidance.

“And you were what—twelve?” He asks, walking beside you. It’s fairly empty in town, a few tourists mulling about carrying shopping bags and plastic cups of juice.

“Try fourteen,” you argue.

“Well, quizzing a, uh—a fourteen-year-old is really not the same as quizzing a grown adult.”

“Ha. Call me when you can’t find your way home tonight,” you diss sarcastically, making a turn toward the bookstore down the street. “Okay, here we are. Don’t get too excited. They’re just books.”

For a relatively empty town, the bookstore always has new batches of titles, displayed proudly for natives and tourists alike front and centre. But you’re already going to the right side of the store, busying yourself with looking at the signs.

“The classics shelf is always my favorite,” you say, already walking ahead of him. Your dress bobs softly with your legs as you pace, short and sweet and white. You turn and his eyes slide back up instantly, and he hopes he was quick enough. “Do you have any authors you like?”

“I am not a big reader. You?”

“Huge,” you say, smiling a little. “Okay, we can browse. Are you into any genre…?”

Carlos proceeds to tell you his track record in the literary field includes: reading half the Harry Potter series, a car manual, and a few other titles in Spanish he cannot recall the name or plot of. But, he adds, he’s always wanted to read, found the activity so quiet and still and perfect, so he allows you to lead him through the titles stacked on each table and condensed on each shelf. He points at, sometimes, or picks up covers he finds appealing.

“How about—?” He reaches for a pink cover that reads It Ends With Us, but your hand loops around his wrist before he can pick it up and you’re pulling him into another aisle.

“…Not that.” You continue perusing the books around you, your hand still wrapped around his. With your free finger, you point at the top shelf, and tiptoe against the bookcase to try and get it. You come close, but not close enough.

Carlos, behind you, is successful, not even needing to tiptoe to reach for the red hardbound you’d been pointing at. It also means he’s pressed up against you, heavy and big, and the sensation dizzies you. When he finally pulls it off, you turn to him and find respite in the proximity—you two are so close, every exhale out of your lips causes a puff of air to blow against his hair.

He steps backward. You smile and gesture toward the book he’s holding. “That’s a good one.”

“Gabriel Garcia Marquez.” He reads out the author’s name in one fluid sentence, his Spanish accent becoming naturally more obvious.

“Okay, colonizer.” He knits his brows. “Trust me,” you insist. “One Hundred Years of Solitude—so good. It was one of the first books I read front to back twice in a row.”

“Wow, what an honor,” he teases sarcastically as you move along the aisle, fingertips brushing against the indents of the books. You turn to narrow your eyes and stick your tongue out. Unfortunately for Carlos, the effect this inflicts upon him is not oh she mocked me, but oh how would it look if—

He needs ice cream. Or to just get out of this aisle.

—

You punctuate the day with two cones of it, melting way too fast in the heat of summer. He’s already half-finished with his vanilla, and you’re taking your time with the lemon sorbet you’d gotten for yourself. Apparently, this is the only other highlight the town has to offer, and judging by the fact that most of the other stores are expensive clothes, souvenir shops, and a Bible bookstore—yeah.

Carlos is also more than sated with the three books in the paper bag he’s holding. Scratch that—six books, you bought a haul for yourself—but it’s not a particularly heavy load, so he’s fine. His phone has been buzzing with Lando’s update requests that he’s been deliberately ignoring.

“They make the best ice cream,” you rave, smiling. You lick over the melt on your lips. “Right?”

He might actually drop his cone now. “It is delicious.”

“Well…” You look around, your hair flying with every turn of your head. Lick over lips again. Again, and again. He has to look away.

“…Do you wanna stop by anywhere else?” You turn to him and ask, licking over the tip of your ice cream cone.

It’s hard for Carlos to pretend he’s looking around your surroundings, at the signs and storefronts, and not at your sticky lips, your pink tongue just peeking out to lap at the quickly melting gelato around your hand. His eyes flit downward, to where the hem of your tiny white dress has flown up in the coastal wind, exposing more of your thighs.

“Carlos?” You repeat, voice sweet and waiting.

He snaps his eyes back up and wills his voice to remain passive. “We can head back.”

So you do, meaning your tour ends around noon, and your parents greet you both with lunch and the round of inevitable questions. Did Comporta live up to your expectations? What books did you get? Was our daughter a good tour guide? The latter, Carlos answers with a smile—very good. You allowed your face to flush, blamed it on the sangria.

Now, though, it’s the brink in-between chilly and hot, sticky traces of the summer afternoon still lingering in the air, mixing with the cool of dusk when you decide to exit your room and fix yourself a glass of something, preferably sweet and alcoholic. An empty driveway save for a Ferrari means your parents are gone, leaving you and—if you’re lucky, which you hope you are—

“Carlos,” you call out from the window you’ve just tugged open with the expertise of somebody who’s lived here for twenty-one summers. “Thirsty?”

He looks up from where he is, outside, continuing his operation on your dad’s car. The hood’s been cranked open, and his long hair is damp with sweat, flying gently in the face of the sunset breeze. He smiles when he sees your figure peeking out.

“For what?”

“Whatever you want,” you respond, taking your bottom lip between your teeth. His white shirt’s stained with oil and dirt, tainting it beige and grey, the tight fit even tighter from his sweat. You can make out the outline of his abs just underneath.

He squints. “Beer?”

You make an exaggerated eugh face to tease him, but duck back inside to bring your homemade aperol and an open, frosty beer outside. When he sees you, he walks closer, smiles and takes a swig of the drink you offer. He makes a noise of satisfaction and you have to make a real effort to maintain a semblance of normalcy, eyes averting from his lips to gaze instead at his solid shoulders, his build, big and tall.

“What’s the problem with beer, hmm?”

“Tastes like shit.” You raise your aperol. “The sweeter, the better. How’s Dad’s car?” You blink, sidestepping him to try and gauge his progress.

“Casi termino.” You look at him, raising your eyebrows, and he translates. “Almost done. It wasn’t that destroyed, if at all.”

“You think he’ll let you drive it when you’re done?” You ask playfully, swiping your condensation-wet finger over the side of the car. You turn, smiling expectantly; Carlos laughs a bit, shrugs.

“It is just a favor. But if he does, I’ll make sure you get to come along.” He says. “You like that?”

“Mmm,” you nod, sipping on your aperol. You part from your straw, lips stained, and smile up at him. “I do.”

His gaze is stuck on your lips. You lick over them, and he looks away with a slow blink. You watch as he ruffles his hair, rounds the car and crosses his arms to view it from the back.

God, he’s handsome. You think of the long-winded nights you’ve been spending trailing your fingers over your legs or texting inspired paragraphs to friends back in university about him. Their responses are almost always Send pic now and a cacophony of heart eye emojis when you manage to snag a stolen shot of him doing just about anything.

His gaze is scrutinizing, every little detail of the car, and eventually he closes the hood again. “Should be good by tomorrow.”

“Where’d you learn to fix cars?” You ask sweetly, nearing him. The wind bites at your legs, your flowy skirt bouncing sporadically and held down by your free hand. When your eyes flit to his, waiting for his response, you find them snapping upward. He’d been distracted.

“I work with cars, so it comes natural.” You lean on the hood of the car and he comes to stand in front of you, his eyes pointed downward at you. “That’s not a very good habit,” he adds.

“Drinking?” You pout, raising your half-empty glass. You blink up at him, the corner of your smiling lip caught in your teeth.

“Biting your lip.” His gaze is intense. “You do it a lot, I noticed.”

You smile, leaning backward a little. His resolve is breaking. “Can I borrow one of the books you got earlier?”

“The three ones you bought not enough?” He raises a brow, downing beer again. Some of it dribbles out of the corner of his lip. You’ve never been one to like the taste, but you’d lick it off him if you could.

“I just wanna browse it,” you push. “I’ll return it tomorrow.”

“Fine,” he relents. “I’ll give it to you tomorrow.”

—

He sees you the next day after lunch, which you’d skipped because you “weren’t hungry.” You’re wearing a dress, hair clipped into a bun when you excuse yourself to pick up an earring in front of him. He almost thinks it’s a fib until he sees it, the pink gem on the floor.

“Sorry,” you say, voice mellow, and then you’re bending over to pick it up. You’re wearing pretty lace panties underneath.

Carlos clears his throat and excuses himself, adjusting his shorts as he goes upstairs.

—

He gives you Norweigan Wood after dinner, like he promised earlier in the week. Two raps on your door, and when you open it, he’s already handing it to you with a quiet smile. “Goodnight,” he says, his voice clipped.

“Our tour isn’t over yet,” you tease, tossing the book onto your bed and descending the steps back downstairs. Confused and interested, he follows you, to the back area of the house, past the swinging screen door, down the steps, and onto the sand.

“Tour?” He repeats, for clarification. The only things to tour are sand and twigs.

“Yeah, Carlos. This is the real tour,” you joke, walking backwards. Every step sends your foot sinking into the cold sand, slowing your pace until Carlos catches up, matching your steps once he does. “Comporta—real and unfiltered.” You both laugh at your hyperbolic, MTV-worthy statement, and he waits for more, entertains you further.

“What is so real about this?” Carlos laughs, allowing himself to humor your little schtick.

“Well, mister. This isn’t bookstores and ice cream parlors.” You point to a nearby spot in the sand, just by a rogue stick. “This is where I smoke without getting caught. Near enough that I can run back in seconds, but faraway enough that my parents can’t immediately see what I’m doing. Granted, I don’t need to be sneaking around much, but if you ever want to do something in secret—”

The implication sends Carlos into a spiral of thought.

“—here’s your spot.”

“So you smoke,” he says when he sits himself on the sand, observing the now-dark skyline of the area. You continue pacing around a little, and when you raise your arms up to stretch, he catches a glimpse of your abdomen, the waistband of pink lace underneath the low rise of your denim shorts.

“Occasionally. Don’t play Holy Mary,” you warn, standing in front of him and stretching your hand out to reveal a box of Marlboro Reds.

“Wasn’t planning to,” he responds, taking a stick and inserting it in between his lips. “Got a light?”

“No,” you tease, taking one for yourself and sliding your lighter out from your pocket in one quick motion. The flame illuminates your face, casts a light on your thin white tee and on the bikini top you have on underneath. You puff out a small cloud of smoke, and Carlos reaches up to take the lighter.

“I said no,” you giggle, your lips knotting into a pout. You hold the lighter just out of his reach, red and bold against the bleak evening.

“Give it.” He sits up higher, reaches harder; he almost gets it, but you step backward and raise your arm out of reach. Again your shirt rises with the movement. The view he gets, this time, of your hips, the lace that hugs the area there, is much more close. The laugh you emit sends a cloud of smoke out.

“No, no,” you continue, laughing, a sweet sound.

Carlos gets up, tries again to lunge for the lighter. At this point he doesn’t even care about the cigarette in between his lips, just wants to entertain you. He tries again but you’re quick with it, ducking every lunge just in time.

“Come on,” he goads, laughing himself. You pace backward, smoking, until your ankles hit the shallow shore water, water that goes deeper and deeper until you’re knee-level, still smiling at him mischievously.

“Fine,” you relent, shrugging. You throw your hands up in surrender, in the process taking the stick out of your mouth to blow smoke out. “Do you want it? C’mere, then.” You beckon him closer, wave the lighter tantalizingly so he steps closer, closer, until you’re holding the flame to the cigarette between his lips.

He’s so tall, he has to bend a little to let you light it, his eyes meeting yours, illuminated by the pale moon and the orange of the flame.

It all goes to plan. Once you light it, you place two hands square on his shoulders, whirl him so he’s behind you and thus even deeper in the water, and with all your might, push him into the sea.

“Brat—” he manages to gasp out as he goes, the word leaving his lips in the first and last puff of smoke he lets out. He surfaces, every dip and ridge of his abs and chest accentuated, his linen polo near invisible with how saturated it is with water. His long hair, too, sticks to his forehead; he combs it backward, reveals his amused-irritated eyes, the dead cigarette spouting seawater and ash.

He spits it out. You stare and pinch the soggy stick in between two fingers, stuffing the trash into his chest pocket. “That’s bad for the environment.”

“I am freezing,” he says in response, but you’re just stifling a laugh.

He narrows his eyes, and with unsurprising ease given his build, picks you up and carries you over his shoulder. You barely have time to protest, almost dropping your own cigarette into the water, kicking and pounding on his back to please put me down. You can feel the water getting deep, deeper, and when he finally dunks you in, it’s only a second of dryness before you’re submerged in the chilly water.

Your cigarette dies, and you manage to collect it, because you’re not in the interest of leaving your stick floating; you wedge it into your pocket.

“You’re such”—you gasp for air—“a dick!”

You’re smiling, though, flailing your legs to stay afloat. Carlos can’t help but stare, entranced with the way your eyelashes stick together, damp, the droplets of water on your cheeks, your two hands wringing saltwater out of your hair, and when you swim upward, the way your white tee leaves nothing to his imagination.

You can tell. He can tell you can tell—because the next thing you do, with some faux exaggerated sigh of annoyance, is say, “Can’t swim, too heavy,” and you’re taking off your shirt so all he sees is the red of your bikini top underneath. The white tee bobs softly with each passing wave, and you’re smiling up at him. Checkmate, you’re saying. I’ve got you. A skittish, playful smile on your lips.

“I can help you swim,” he offers—retaliates, more like, his height offering him great advantage. He finds your bare ankle underwater, guides it to wrap around his waist. Naturally, your other leg follows until you’re flush against him, held up by him so you don’t need to wag your legs around just to stay above water.

Your hands go on his still-clothed shoulders first, then eventually around them, fingers linking at the nape of his neck. Your smile is wicked. You’re so sinfully pretty. He wades deeper, holds you all the while, two big hands on either side of your waist, thumbs rubbing over your sides so you can shiver.

“‘M so wet,” you say, voice shaky with chill and laughter. His grip tightens and he has to squeeze his eyes shut to try and pretend you didn’t just say that.

He dips you underneath the surface to surprise you, and your shriek is cut off by the water—he pulls you up quick, laughing, but underestimates his strength because as he tugs, you barrel right onto him, forehead bumping his.

Your eyes are closed, and you momentarily detach from him to wipe salt out of them. “Ass.”

“Brat,” he responds.

You open your eyes to find he’s close, so close you could just lean forward an inch—an inch—and you’d be meeting his lips. You wonder how they feel, how he kisses. He’s confident everywhere else, would he kiss you like that, too? You lean closer, a wrecked gasp escaping you.

“You’re so pretty,” you say, and it’s supposed to be teasing, but your breathy voice is genuine, honest. A thumb swipes over his eyelashes, causing him to blink, then the bridge of his nose. He leans upward, tries to catch your lips, but pauses, his eyes fluttering open and closed.

“This is wrong,” he says in a quiet breath, making no move at all you stop either of you from kissing right now.

You want—need—to kiss him, but you can play the long game if he wishes to. Your eyes flit back up to his, dark brown and reflecting the moon.

“Then let’s head back,” you suggest, even if both of you want anything but.

Long game. He guides you back to shore, picks your tee up, uses it as a sieve for any loose ash and cigarette bits in your path back to shore, even finds your red lighter that’s now dispensing water. He apologizes for not having anything to dry you with, and drops you off at your room with a puddle in both of your wakes.

“Thank you again,” he says, his voice a whisper through your ajar door. He observes your room with what little vantage point he has. The posters on the wall, the art, postcards. The laptop on the bed, open. The phone charging on the nightstand. The thong hanging out of the hamper.

“No problem,” you say back, voice saccharine. Your hand wraps around his wrist. “See you tomorrow.”

Even if you’re doused in seawater, he can still smell the traces of your perfume, the summery sweet of it, when you close the door. He stays for a second, blinks, relishes in the hint of floral.

—

You spend three days walking on eggshells around each other, testing the limits of interaction.

Your night at the beach was risky, dangerous, thrilling—but it was fun, sending you both into antsy, restless trains of thought. Carlos self-medicates with coffee, beer in the afternoon, working on your dad’s car, and the first two hundred pages of the Marquez book you insisted he pick up. He spots you sometimes, lounging on the beach with his book in your grip, the waistline of your bikini bottoms leaving a tanline he can’t stop staring at when you walk back into the house.

But he can’t act on it—he was the one who labeled it wrong, the one who suppressed himself, held the urge back. He told you it was wrong. And it is wrong. He’s older, he should be wiser; he’s close with your dad; and a cacophony of other rational reasons he shouldn’t be playing into this skittish summer crush.

“Dad said the boat’s free,” a voice says, and he looks up from his book to find you standing in front of him, wearing nothing but a bikini top and a skirt, loose and riding low on your hips. Your lips stretch into a sweet smile. “Wanna come?”

He really shouldn’t. “Sí.”

So he goes. He’s thirty-five. That’s a grown age. If anything, he’s capable of making sure he stays responsible. He dog-ears his page and picks up his beer to follow you to where the boat is docked. He’d been on your dad’s yacht earlier in his trip here, to go fishing, but it’s quieter today, bobbing softly atop the water. You lie yourself down on the sunny side of the boat, sunglasses over your eyes.

“Stay anywhere you like,” you say charmingly. It’s silent for a while, Carlos seating himself on one of the lounge seats in the shaded area, and then you’re moving around on your towel.

You peer over your lenses, blinking and sitting up, and this is when he knows he can’t do it.

“Carlos,” you call out. “Can you put sunscreen on my back?” You get up again, rifling in your bag for the bottle of sunscreen, dragging a hand through your hair to comb it out. It falls in loose waves, swishing when you turn to hand him the bottle. He pretends he’d been distracted on page 210 when he accepts it, watching as you sit in front of the seat, your back turned to him, your little figure in-between his spread legs.

A minute passes with no hand at your back. “Go ahead, move even slower,” you joke, and the tension breaks a little; he humors you, laughs and apologizes.

“It’s because hour hair is in the way,” he says, touching it gently, combing it to the side.

“Wait—” You dig through your bag again and pull out a blunt pink ribbon, slipping it into his hand. “Can you braid it for me?”

“Braid?” He doesn’t know jack shit about braiding hair. “I don’t know how.”

“At that age of yours and you don’t know anything about how to please a girl,” you whistle lowly. “Adult virgin?”

But you guide him through it despite your teasing, teaching him to divide your hair in threes, weaving one strand over the other until “it looks half decent.” He fucks up a few times and your hair looks odd at some point, but in the end, it’s—well, it’s a braid.

“How is it?” You ask, and he can hear your smile.

He does the job well enough for a first-timer, he thinks, finishing it with the ribbon, which he ties loosely lest you’re unhappy with the finished product. It becomes easier to move your hair out of the way, and once your back is saturated with sunscreen, you unfold your legs and get up, turning around and smiling down at his sitting figure.. Loose tendrils of hair frame your face, the braid resting at your back softly, already loosening.

“Your hair can be braided, too,” you comment quietly, knotting a rogue few strands in your fingers. It hasn’t been this tense since that night at the beach, but that ended before the tension rose further—this, now, keeps going. You step closer and he leans back, smiling. “Can I?”

He blinks, nostrils flaring, then nods, his grip on your hips gentle when you sit on his lap, your legs on either side of his. You smile coquettishly, feeling how hard he is underneath you, the denim of his jeans rough against the skin of your bare thighs. Your skirt’s riding up on them with every little shift you make, just to rile him up.

Carlos drinks in the sight of you, sunkissed and on his lap, legs sprawled out, pretty little face framed, bottom lip in your teeth. You’re inviting him closer, your gaze meeting his with sleepy, demure eyes—do something. You look so fucking precious, so pretty. It makes him want to give you everything right now.

You reach forward, make an attempt to try and weave his hair together—but he grinds upward, your breath hitching and a whimper punched out of your mouth.

Your hands are shaking now, barely able to piece his hair together with how good his clothed cock feels pressed against you, where you need it most.

“Carlos,” you gasp, and all he can really think is—where’d all your fight go? You were so used to being a brat and a half, now you’re whimpering, on the edge of begging.

“Be quiet,” Carlos grunts, digging his fingers into your hips. His other hand lifts your skirt, bunching the fabric around your hips for a better view of your cunt rubbing against the bulge in his pants. The damp fabric of your panties is swallowed between your lips with every grind you make forward and he has to stop himself from cursing out loud at the sight. “Good girl.”

Your hands move from his hair to his shoulders, sturdy and broad; you can feel him squeeze your waist with both hands, then pull you down against him, just once, so your weight presses down on the hard shape of his cock. It makes him shudder and you whine out loud. You resist the urge to grind over it; you’re already so wet you’re making a mess on his jeans.

His praise, mumbled deep and slow in your ear, gets you feeling all warm, almost ditzy. Your hips roll on their own, chasing the delicious drag of rough denim against your clit, slick soaks into and through your panties, making the material cling to the shape your folds. Carlos’ hands are rough when they wander and grope, hiking this godforsaken skirt up so he can press a thumb against the centre of your folds.

“Been so good for you, Carlos,” you whine, circling your hips against him. He can’t stop staring at your pretty, fucked-out eyes, your bitten lips. He shoves two fingers in-between them, imagines how they looked just a few days ago slick with ice cream—now your tongue is laving over his hand. The braid you'd just taught him is quickly unraveling with every nod of your head. “‘M gonna—can I—” The pleas leave you quick, your voice choked.

Euphoric, your mind lifts, foggy and saturated with pleasure, the braid almost completely undone now. His praise is so addictive, gets you worked up and needy. Come on, he says. Make a mess. His accent, his deep voice, the way it rumbles right through you—his voice drops, his touch a little heavier as he presses harder.

You gonna cum for me? His thumb rubs faster until you’re gasping, shuddering, little ahs leaving your lips. He’s got the upper hand now, but you can hear the strain, the suppression in his voice as he rubs over the soaked fabric; you feel his cock growing under you, getting harder.

P—please—I want to—please let me, you say breathlessly, and you’ve never needed it to the point of begging before, but Carlos is different. He keeps going, doesn’t give you permission, rubbing faster, your heart hammering in your chest.

Feel good?

Y—yeah, you whimper, trying your best not to fall apart here, on your dad’s boat, where anybody could walk on—or maybe see you from afar, humping your dad’s friend in broad daylight. He loves watching you like this; you’ve somehow become even prettier, face flushed and voice shaky.

Come on, he goads. Be a good girl. Cum for me.

It’s the only instruction that matters to you right now, your body seizing with it and cute little moans escaping you as you finish. You catch your breath against his chest, craving warmth even if it’s hot—maybe you’re craving him, his touch, Carlos, just Carlos. You maneuver yourself so legs, exhausted from shaking, are on one side of his body—he holds you close, humming.

He rubs a steady hand across your lower back, gentle and firm and you want him so much more now. “Are you okay?” He asks. “Talk to me.”

“Perfect,” you pant against his polo, fingers playing with the stitching, tugging the collar down so you can mouth at his skin. His hand plays with what’s left of the braid, winds the pink ribbon around his fingers. “Let’s go for a swim.”

—

“And we drove the jet ski around, too,” you say gleefully, your damp hair bobbing with every move of your head. Your face is sunkissed, a little sore from being in the sun for most of the afternoon. Carlos laughs along from where he is at the grill—he’s cooking for dinner, on a quest to make burgers because he’s known for making the best ones back in Madrid, apparently. Your dad, of course, insists on joining, and the two have been asking and answering questions while you and your mum sip rosé at the table.

“Did you have fun?” Your mum asks, her head turning to address Carlos.

“Yeah, tons,” he replies with a smile, his eyes meeting yours for a brief second. You know what he means. It’s been only two days since the afternoon on the boat, and since then you’ve mostly swam and ridden around on the jet ski with Carlos—nothing more.

“See, sweetie,” she adds, placing a hand over yours. “I told you this summer would be fun with him around!”

“Mmm, yeah,” you say, nodding and parting from your glass, “I can really count on him for some excitement.” The statement catches his attention and he almost trails off, eyes returning to yours, before he continues speaking in Spanish to your dad about something or other.

The burgers’ reputation precedes them, and is warranted, you learn later when you’re biting into it for the first time. The remainder of dinner passes by in lively conversation, the sun setting low underneath the Comporta horizon, wine taking the place of rosé. Carlos mentions the racing world again, about how he’ll be back into the thick of it sooner than later, and you pulse with something akin to sadness.

Your parents, apparently so grateful for the blessing that is Carlos’ burgers, offer to clean up and before long, they retreat to their downstairs bedroom. Upstairs, you marinate in your thoughts, blinking up at your ceiling, twining your pink ribbon around your fingers as your hair dries splayed over your bedding. You let your arm down, in the process bumping your elbow against a hard surface.

Upon investigation, you find it’s a copy of Norweigan Wood.

Carlos is at his desk, taking a timezone-separated call about simulation and season prep, when two soft knocks go at his door and it creaks open. He turns the chair away from the desk to see who it is. An ankle steps in first, then more leg, and then you—in a lovely, pretty pink lace dress, your face illuminated by the moonlight outside. One hand clutches a copy of his book; the other, the ribbon he’d used on your hair earlier.

He’s nursing a bottle of beer, just to help ease the drag of the day, and he watches you approach him, your footsteps quiet against the hardwood of the floor. Wait, he mouths, finishing the call in a hushed tone, and when he hangs up you approach him again.

“I thought you should have this back,” you say, offering him the book. Your eyes rake over him, wearing the same getup he’d worn to dinner—denim jeans, because he’d ducked out to buy food, except he’s ridden himself of his shirt.

He takes the book, places it on the table, continues staring up at you. “And I thought you should keep this.” The ribbon, pale pink, is now looped around his wrist and tied into a delicate ribbon at the apex of it. You admire your handiwork with a smile tugging at the corners of your lips.

You lean down, face just shy of his. “We shouldn’t,” he manages to eke out, his voice strained.

“But you want to,” you respond softly. “No one’s going to know. Our little secret.”

His eyes are shut, contemplating, and then he’s kissing you—the only thing you’ve wanted, craved, touched yourself to the thought of over the course of the summer. You reciprocate immediately, parting your lips to let him kiss you deeper, a whimper leaving your mouth. He kisses like he knows he’s a good kisser, and he really is. His scent is intoxicating, a drug, sending arousal and desire straight through you.

You part, eyes half-lidded as you stand straight again. You cock your head slowly to the side, and with your head’s movement your hair follows, gathering on one side. It exposes much of your shoulder and collarbones, which lay underneath the thin lace dress you wear to sleep, and which is now subject to Carlos' unwavering stare. He has no shame, eyes raking over you, up and down and back up. One hand curled around a bottle of beer, the other coming up to slowly graze the back of your thigh.

Your breath hitches. “Do you like the dress?” You ask softly, teasingly. It’s nothing special, Carlos, you seem to say; it’s just a nightie.

His hand is rough against the thin skin of your leg, traveling upward. He gives you a nod in response; he does like it, the sheer material, the pink color, the loose way it hugs your body. Roughly, he voices his assent. “Come sit on my lap.”

“Wait,” you say, pouting. Your knee rubs softly against the material of his jeans, and you slowly sink onto your knees, hands placing themselves on your thighs. His grip goes from the back of your thigh to your hair, combing it softly, cradling your face.

“Let me,” you say, letting your silence imply everything unsaid. He’s going crazy, losing his mind.

“So pretty,” he says, nodding. his voice thin. “Go ahead, baby.”

The petname gets you dizzy. You lean forward, resting your face on the hard bulge in his pants, smiling up at him. You’ve got these big, doe eyes, begging him, and he’s not so sure he even has the upper hand anymore—he would do anything you asked, any request that left those pretty bitten lips. He gathers your hair in two hands, forms a messy, unclean braid, crisscross at the back of your head just so he has something to grip while he fucks your throat.

You make quick, deft work of unbuttoning his jeans, and he watches, leaned back on the chair, legs spread wide with bent knees on either side of your body, caging you in. Carlos’ eyes are half-lidded, a hand at your braid, bringing his beer to his lips, swallowing before he sets it onto the adjacent desk.

His cock is big—thick, intimidating—and you can’t help but wonder how you’re going to fit the whole thing in your mouth without choking. It twitches in your palms the longer you stroke him, precum weeping from the head and slicking up your palms. Gruff expletives, in Spanish and English, slip past his gritted teeth and the sounds travel directly to your core, causing you to instinctively press your thighs together to soothe the ache blossoming there.

You take head of his cock into your mouth, feel it roll over your tongue, heavy and warm. Drool gathers in your mouth and your fingers dig into the muscle of his thighs in anticipation. The hand wound around your braid, pressed against your head, presses heavier slowly, slotting the first few inches of cock into your mouth while avoiding the back of your throat. You relax, letting your lips seal around the length, cheeks hollowing and tongue lulling at the underside. He curses.

You continue bobbing your head, lewd noises leaving your mouth with every move you make; it embarrasses you, but also sends slick gushing out of you.

Tears prick at the corners of your eyes when the tip of his cock grazes the back of your throat; you cough, fingers heavy as they dig into the flesh of his still-denim clas thighs; drool trickles onto his balls. The hand remains there, though, pushing you and keeping you pinned in place as he slowly thrusts upward. You haven’t even gotten him all the way.

You gag and sputter, eyes fully watering the harder Carlos bullies his cock into your throat; you’re dizzy with arousal and submission, maybe one, maybe both, you’re too far gone.

“Easy,” he orders, and you will yourself to breathe nasally, relaxing, burying more of him in you. He loves seeing you like this, hair all pretty—his braid, too—and on your knees, trying your best to please him. “Being so good for me, good girl,” he says, losing resolve. You’re so pretty when you cry, eyes rimmed and bloodshot, tear streaks all over your cheekbones.

He ruts shallowly into your throat, every move punctuated by a guttural gag from your end—once, twice, a third time, before finally he releases you. You let out a cough, and a gasp, breathy, a string of saliva connecting your lips to his tip. He doesn’t want to cum yet—not like this. You gaze up at him, big eyes anticipating, and he guides you upward, on the bed.

He kicks his jeans off and readjusts his briefs, watches you scramble to position yourself on the bed, sitting down properly. “Will you fuck me now?” You ask, your sweet voice raspy. He likes knowing he’s the reason why.

You inch yourself backward so you’re fully on his bed, a hand traveling to stop your tiny dress from riding up any further. He steps closer, one knee on the bed, caging you in again, and stops you. His gaze flickers down to your legs, forces your knees apart so he can see in between them. Your pretty cunt’s soaked through your panties. “Don’t hide from me,” he says, voice rough as he steps back off the bed and kneels beside it.

“Carlos,” you breathe, letting him have his way with you. Your mind’s all fuzzy, but it’s okay—he takes care of you.

Strong arms snake around your thighs and pull you toward him until your cunt is level with his face. His breath, warm, fans against you, muted by the thin fabric of your panties and it does nothing to help the unadulterated, dirty arousal throbbing in your cunt. He bites at the flesh of your inner thigh, then hooks two fingers into your panties and pulls them aside.

The taste of you is so good; it goes straight to Carlos’ head. And all of your embarrassed, whiny whimpers, the way your fingers knot helplessly into his hair as he drags his tongue up your cunt — that drives him absolutely crazy. He licks at your pussy, sticks his tongue in, nudges your clit with his nose, ekes whimpers and debauched moans out of your lips.

He pushes two fingers into you, doesn’t give you time to adjust before he’s fucking them in and out, moans spilling out of you involuntarily. It’s lewd, it’s dirty, getting his friend’s daughter all spread out for him like this, but Carlos loves it. More, you sob, more, please, I need—yeah—

His skilled tongue doesn’t let up, continues toying with you, licking up all the arousal oozing out of your cunt. He eats you, fucks you with his fingers, until your eyes are welling up with overwhelm and the need to release, your hands pulling at his long hair—your pussy dripping, quivering, right at the edge of your orgasm.

Any of the reservations you had are now out the window. Your grip on Carlos’ hair is tight, pushing his head deeper into your pussy and grinding against his mouth mindlessly.

I’m cumming—!

Your voice is so dirty, so lewd, so needy, when you finally finish around him, slick dripping out and your pussy twitching, clenching and unclenching around nothing as you release. Panting, you hoist yourself on your elbows, your braid surprisingly intact, and pout down at him.

“I said fuck me.”

“So you complain,” he responds with a coy smile, his lips shiny with your slick. You want him to fuck you stupid.

He does eventually, gets you all calm and lying down on the bed, knees to your chest. Your feet cross and uncross with anticipation. He lets his cock rest first on your stomach, where it twitches, smearing precum under your belly button.

“That’s where you’ll be,” you say, stroking him. When he finally does begin thrusting into you, he wishes he could save the image of your pretty eyes fluttering closed, puffy lips open in a whimper.

Your legs tremble with the size you’re taking, his hand gentle as it is firm on your hips, forcing you to take him, take him good, take him better. Good girl, he’s saying, good fucking girl. Inch by inch, you struggle to take all of him, his girth thicker than what your cunt is willing to take. You’re positive you’ll feel him in your stomach.

“Carlos,” you whimper, voice aching.

“Fuck,” is all he can muster, watching your pussy swallow him. “So tight.”

He’s drunk on the feeling of you, wet and clenching around him, so tight. He can tell you’re high on it too, on the stretch of him, the way you keep trying to meet every thrust, legs already beginning to tremble with pleasure and deep arousal. He bottoms out, an expletive leaving him in Spanish, and then slowly begins to fuck in and out of you.

He watches your face, the way your brows knit as you take him, take his cock, eyelides fluttering. “So good,” you moan, mouth open. He drops a glob of spit onto your tongue, tells you to swallow—you do, presenting your empty tongue to him. Good girl, prettiest girl—any and all praise leaves him in dizzy, heady breaths.

“Teasing me for so long,” he pants, his dick splitting you in half. “This what you wanted? Hmm?”

But even in your cloudy mind, you find the grit to retaliate, teasingly, a cloy smile on your lips. “You said it was wrong,” you gasp out with every thrust. “Fucking your friend’s daughter.”

“But you love it,” Carlos goads. “Do you?”

You nod, cockdrunk, but it’s not enough. “Use your words, pretty. You can do it.”

“I do, I love it. I need more,” you whine, getting off on his teasing, on the implication that this is all wrong, that neither of you should be doing this. “Needed this so much, Carlos.” You crack your eyes open to watch the bulge in your abdomen, the shape of his girth splitting you open. He slams into you harder and you try to squirm away, but he keeps you pinned in place.

“And if your dad walked in?”

You gush slick all over him. “Carlos,” you plead.

“Saw his daughter taking his friend’s dick?” He says it low into your ear, bending to make sure you hear all of it. “Taking it like a good girl, too.” He pulls out, slaps your ruined hole with his dick, then shoves it in deep again, groaning when you cry out—getting off on you whining about how sensitive you are, the way you tremble under him and around him. Your pretty little face, all sweaty and ruined.

“I’m gonna—fuck—I’m, Carlos—I’m gonna cum,” you say, nodding. You’ve probably cum twice already, little bursts of pleasure causing your cunt to twitch around him, sensitive. “Can I—?”

“That’s it,” he praises. “Come on, cum for me. Been so good for me.” You tremble around him as you finish, broken moans fucked out of you with every surge of his hips forward.

He’s close, too, having held off fucking you for the past how many days, and you can tell; his thrusts get shallower, faster, until his hips are stuttering and he’s panting your name out, long hair framing his flushed, pretty face. You reach up to comb a hand through it. “Cum inside me,” you beg, watching him go crazy, his nostrils flaring and eyes blinking quick.

He pumps his cum into you, thrusting several times as he rides it out, fucking you full of him, of his cum. You relish in the feeling, of being his girl, his good girl. “You’re a mess,” he comments, his face buried into your neck. He pulls out, both of you sighing at the sight and feeling of his cum dribbling out of you, onto the bed.

You unfold your legs, sitting up despite how sore you feel. Your dress is damp with sweat, and slick, and cum. “I feel a mess.” You pout.

“You look pretty.”

“Can I sleep here tonight?” You ask, voice meek. He nods, holds you tight as you both drift off, like he knows that you won’t be his to call his by the time the summer wanes and Comporta is left empty again.

—

“It’s the post-race interview,” Ali calls. “Hurry!”

“I’m coming, I’m coming!” You hop into the living room, tossing her the bag of popcorn she’d requested you to cook. Fall has officially dawned upon the city, adorning it with orange and red leaves, jazz music and cold nights—and weekends watching races.

Around you, all your university friends watch with intense gazes at the winner of the latest Formula One grand prix—something none of you had been remotely interested in just months prior.

You watch, eyes glittering, at the winner. Tan skin, long hair, jogging over to the journalist. Sainz, what a stellar drive! She sounds awestruck, genuinely taken aback by his dominance on the track today. She asks for a message in Spanish, as always; a few words of inspiration, and then, just as a fun little tidbit—did you have a good luck charm today?

He smiles to himself, like he’s just heard an inside joke and seems to think for a minute. “No, not really.” Then he combs a hand through his hair. There, looped around his wrist, is a pretty, pale pink ribbon.

#f1 #carlos sainz #carlos sainz drabble #carlos sainz fanfic #carlos sainz smut #carlos sainz imagines #carlos sainz one shot #f1 x reader

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beescake · 9 months

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i am in love with your sollux i think

sollux love party :]

if you’re interested heres some of my personal fondness thoughts on him.. big warning for the mega long read ahead aye

as we alr know sollux's rejection of participation somewhat mirrors dave's rejection of heroism, but even without getting cooked to completion i still find sollux's character v compelling beyond the fourth wall

as someone who doesnt get a pinch of that Protagonist Sparkle to begin with, he can openly say he wants to leave anytime…. and unlike dave, he actually Can leave the scene anytime. but he can never be truly Free from the story via permanent character death like the other trolls.

his irrelevancy is indeed relevant - he’s there so u can point him out.

while his image is intended to be a relic of past internet subculture, his role is not only about hehehaha being a Chad or a 2000s cyberforum 2²chan haxxor ragequit gamebro.

his continued existence also happens to add a Bit to the overarching themes of homestuck! a Bit that gives him longer-lasting thematic relevance compared to the trolls who could’ve had more character potential but didnt get to survive beyond the main story.

the Bit in question:

his defiance contributes to the illusion of agency (treating characters = people with autonomy). he’s “aware” of it, and that recognition is worth noting enough to forcibly keep him alive as both reward and punishment.

considering how his personality & classpect is designed its definitely a very haha thing for hussie to do LOL. he’s made to be op asf so he's resigned to doing dirty work, gradually deteriorating along the way but never truly dying. as fans have mentioned before, him openly rejecting involvement after a while of grim tolerance is like if the sim u were controlling suddenly stopped, looked up and gave u the finger while u were step six into the walkthrough for Every Possible Sim Death Animation.

but since he’s just a sim… the more he hates it, the more you keep him around. if ur sim started complaining abt your whimsical household storyline you’d definitely keep that little fuck.

but yeah i like that sollux is just idling. the significance of his presence being that one dude who's always reliably Somewhere, root core Unchanged, no individual ambitions (possibly due to fear of consequence?), and design-wise: a staple representative product of his time.

compared to dirk's character, who has aged phenomenally well into the present (themes of control + AR + artificial intelligence, clearer exploration around navigating relationships/sexuality, infinite possibilities of self-splinterhood and trait inheritance), sollux's potential is really... contained. bitter. defeatist. limiting and frustrating in the way old tech is.

the world continues moving on to shinier, brighter, more advanced automated things - minimalist and metaverse or whatever but sollux is still here 🧍‍♂️ going woohoo redblue 3d. (tho personally i imagine his vibe similar to what the kids call cassette futurism on pinterest mixed w more grimy grunge insectoid influences eheh)

conceptually-speaking,

at the foundation of it all, the rapid pace of modern development was built off the understanding of ppl like sollux in the past, who were There actively at work while the dough was still beginning to rise

thats one of the cool things abt the idea of trolls preceding humans! the idea that trolls like sollux excelled back when lots of basic shit still needed to be discovered, building structures like networks and codes from scratch, and humans will eventually inherit and reinvent that knowledge in ways that become so optimized it makes the old manual effort seem archaic, slow, and labour-intensive.

but despite information/resources/shortcuts being more accessible now, much of the new highly-anticipated stuff released on trend still end up unfinished, inefficient, or expiring quickly due to cutting corners under severe capitalistic pressures

meanwhile, some of the old stuff frm past generations of thorough, exploratory and perfectionistic development still remains working, complete, and ever so sturdy.

those things continue to exist, just outside our periphery with either:

zero purpose left for modern needs (outdated/obsolete)

far too important to replace or destroy, bcs of its surprisingly essential and circumstantial usefulness in one niche specific area.

which are honestly? both points that sum up sollux pree well.

dramatic ending sorry. anw are u still on the fence or are u Sick abt him like me </3

#ask #anon #sollux captor #homestuck #hs2 spoilers #2023 #vioart #hs2 sollux explaining girls and bitches to john: 🗣️🗣️🗣️#mr foods‚ setting up the visuals: LMAO ok pause. cool story bro theyre all gone its just u n ur sandwich bro.#now that i think abt it sol's kind of a toaster? awkwardly takes up countertop space #lacks the versatility and sociability of an air fryer/pressure cooker. unwashed and littered w crumbs!#but sometimes the clear‚ frank simplicity of the toaster is a temporary lifesaver for ppl who struggle w low appetite / decision fatigue #or ppl who just have a habit of eating toast for breakfast LOL #and eh ¯\ _(ツ)_/�� even if u dont feel like toasting today thats ok he's still gonna be sitting there 👍👍#a funnyman..... i curse him in my pan but root for him in my biscuit 🫶

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nadvs · 2 months

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Hey girl! I’m obsessed with basketball!rafe, your write him so well! On the night of readers first visit in basketball!rafes condo, you said they slept together. Can we have a blurb on that? I NEED to know how that went

thank you so much!! omg yessss. they’ve been long distance and it’s been hard but they miss each other so much so when she finally visits, it’s intense 🤭

based on this fic, mentioned in this blurb! 18+!

» au masterlist

at this point, they’ve been together for almost seven months. and a month and a half of that has been at a distance.

since rafe moved away, it feels like all they do is argue. most of their calls have been tense. they’ve gone days giving each other silent treatment too many times to count.

so when she’s stepping out of the airport gate that late afternoon, she’s more nervous than she is excited for her three-day stay, and she hates that she feels like that.

she finds rafe standing by a pillar, wearing a baseball hat and sunglasses. he’s gotten even bigger, his muscles bulging under his sleeveless shirt. now that he’s signed with the nba, he’s at practice every morning, hitting the gym twice a day, preparing for the season two months away. always busy. often too busy for her.

he doesn’t wait for her to reach him. he helps close the distance, meeting her in an open pocket in the crowd and wrapping her in his arms. he’s holding her so tightly that she can feel his heartbeat on her chest.

she didn’t know what to expect when he saw her, considering how rocky things have been. but this feels like the best possible way he could greet her. he seems happy. the chasm between them is still there, but it’s closing.

rafe nuzzles into her neck, smelling the mix of shampoo and perfume that makes her her, and is so overwhelmed that his throat feels thicker and tears start to form in his eyes. thank fuck he’s wearing shades.

“hey, baby,” he says, muffled.

“hi,” she says softly. “how are you?”

it’s a loaded question. he’s lonely. he didn’t realize how lonely until he held her. he’s stressed. he’s out of his depth. but he settles for, “not bad. you?”

“better now,” she says.

she knows her boyfriend’s life has changed. but it’s not until they’re walking out of the building and he gets stopped by a middle-aged man asking for a photo with him that she realizes just how much things have shifted. the man’s wife shakes her head, saying don’t bother them, but the man says please, it’ll be quick.

rafe obliges, once again grateful he’s wearing shades so nobody sees his teary eyes.

“you’ll take us to the final, won’t you?” the man says, clearly starstruck.

“i’ll try,” he replies. it’s clear to her that rafe’s a little uneasy, which surprises her. she thought he and his ego would love the attention.

“you’re like famous famous,” she teases once they walk far enough away.

“that’s only like, the second time that happened,” he says, not matching her playfulness.

she can tell that he’s trying to downplay it. but the season hasn’t even started and he’s already being recognized. it’s a big deal.

“is that why you’re all disguised?” she realizes.

“yeah,” he admits, seemingly embarrassed. he really didn’t want anyone to recognize him today.

they reach his car in an underground parking garage and she settles in the passenger seat as puts her suitcase in his backseat. he sits and starts the car.

“what have you done with my boyfriend?” she asks, trying to lighten the mood. “how are you not bragging about what just happened?”

“i don’t know,” he says. “you’re here. that’s what i’m focused on. and who knows… i could be one of those guys who gets one contract and then burns out. better not to get used to all that.”

her eyebrows knit together. he’s being short with her. and he’s never spoken like this. she’s seen him unsure about himself only a few times before. he was painfully nervous on draft night. but he never mentioned anything about his career burning out. this isn’t the man she knows.

“you’re a great player,” she tells him. “you won’t burn out.”

he nods unconvincingly and shifts the car into reverse, trying to avoid this heavy of a conversation right away. she knows him well enough to know what he’s doing. she puts her hand on his.

“hey,” she says softly. “wait a second.”

he sighs, his throat thickening again. he puts the car in park and turns it off.

“you good?” she asks.

he pinches the bridge of his nose. she realizes that his hand is trembling. he finally takes his sunglasses off and rubs his eyes, wiping at them.

“i’m tired,” he admits.

she stares at him through worried eyes.

“i’m sorry. we’ll take it easy tonight,” she tells him. “we can just order food and watch tv and go to bed early. it’s going to be okay.”

he nods, licking his lips nervously.

“it makes sense if you’re overwhelmed. it’s a lot of pressure. your life is so different now,” she says. “and i know i was part of the old one, but i want to be part of this new one, too, okay? i’m here for you.”

she’s not saying it solely to reassure him. she realizes she’s hoping he’ll reassure her back. things are still off between them. she can feel it. maybe it’s because she’s slowly drifting into the past to him. maybe he won’t carry her into his new life.

rafe is speechless. his chest hurts. he hates that she would insinuate that he doesn’t have a place for her. that she has any doubts at all. he’s the one who called her after their last big argument, following days of not talking to each other. he’s still bitter about it. he keeps putting up a fight, yet it’s like she thinks she’s the only one trying.

“the only way to fail is to give up, right?” she says.

rafe snorts.

“where’d you read that?” he says mockingly. cutting.

he regrets it immediately. she sits straighter, creating distance between them.

“i’m sorry,” he says. “i’m just... i want you here. i do. i’m already thinking about how you’re going to leave and it sucks. i’m just so… on edge.”

“so, your way to handle it is by being mean to me like, a minute after i get here?” she asks. his knee-jerk reaction to stress has always been to be rude and combative. it’s her least favorite thing about him.

“my head’s not right. i’m sorry.”

even though she’s hurt and bitter, she pushes past it and nods.

“let’s start over,” she says. “i can tell you all about my flight. real exciting stuff.”

he finally cracks a genuine smile.

when they make it to rafe’s penthouse, she’s shocked. she saw the view of the city through the floor-to-ceiling windows over their facetime calls, but the real thing doesn’t compare. it’s unreal, the way the setting sun is glistening over the skyline.

it’s crazy. she’s stayed right where she’s been since she met him, on the same campus doing the same things, but now he’s here. the stinging anxiety hits her again that maybe he’ll leave her in the past.

“this is really nice,” she says.

rafe gazes at her as she looks out the window. he’s felt out of place since he got here. the dynamic with his new team is nothing like it was back in college. this condo feels more like a hotel instead of his home.

but with her here, the most important piece of all he knows, the place doesn’t feel cold anymore.

he looks out at the view. it is nice. but it’s been hard to appreciate it since there’s been a weight living over him, blurring things.

“you can continue the tour now,” she says.

he offers her his hand. she takes it. his palm is rough and calloused from all his training.

as she paces through the condo, everything about the place is stunning. bare, but stunning.

“i can help you decorate if you want,” she offers as they travel down the hallway. “wanna go shopping tomorrow?”

“yeah,” he agrees. something as mundane as shopping for decor excites him simply because it’ll be with her.

they reach his bedroom. the california king bed is centered against the back wall. the room offers another beautiful view with a balcony.

“you ever sit out there in the morning? watch the sunrise?” she asks, stepping towards the open balcony door. she can hear the dull roar of cars zooming through the massive freeway laid out far below.

“nah, i go straight to practice,” rafe says. “and on days off, i just sleep in.”

“right,” she recalls. he gets up almost every morning before the sun rises. his schedule has been brutal. she feels guilty for fighting with him about how hard it’s been to schedule calls with him. she pictured him living a glamorous life, forgetting all about her. but he just seems isolated. exhausted.

she turns to face him again, gazing around the characterless room.

“would you want pictures in here? maybe some art on the walls?” she asks.

“i thought decorating started tomorrow?” rafe teases. she loves that he’s seeming to ease up a bit.

“can never be too prepared.” he smirks, looking down at her with a tired, but relaxed expression.

“i haven’t had time to do anything with the place,” he says. “and i wouldn’t even know where to start.”

“all good,” she says. “you stick to basketball, i’ll stick to making this place look like someone actually lives in it.”

“deal,” he says with a soft laugh.

she smiles. her eyes drift down, noticing faint white lines on his shoulders under his sleeveless shirt. she traces her fingers over the new stretch marks.

“they’re not working you too hard, are they?” she asks.

her tender touch makes rafe’s body go hot. she feels it immediately, how the tension between them has shifted.

“no,” he mumbles. “the trainer said i actually need to slow down on the lifting. i can’t get too heavy. i won’t be able to run as fast.”

“so, what i’m hearing is you need a few rest days,” she says with a cute shrug. “you need to relax. it’s for the good of your game.”

he chuckles. within minutes of getting home, his girl makes everything better.

“thank you for coming,” he says sincerely, his hands finding her hips. her heart feels ten times lighter.

“for getting on a flight you booked? in first class? to live in your penthouse?” she says. “you’re welcome. big sacrifice.”

rafe smirks at her again, leaning closer. their lips press in a slow, sweet, long kiss. he pulls back once he feels her hand on his cheek.

“you stressed out, baby?” she whispers. his eyes are still closed an he only nods, grimacing. she strokes his cheek with her thumb.

“you want me to help you relax?” she says. he leans lower, his forehead on hers. his stomach is numb. his boxers suddenly feel too tight.

“yeah.” rafe’s tone is low. needy.

“lie down,” she tells him. “i’ll make you feel better.”

his entire body is buzzing. once he’s on his back in his bed, they’re slowly pulling off each other’s clothes.

she thought when they’d inevitably get into bed, it’d be impatient and rushed, but every movement is careful. they want to savor each other. it’s so much better this way.

she leads him to lie on his pillow when he’s left in his boxers and she’s in her panties. she pulls down his boxers, watching him spring out, the coil in her body already tightened to its limit. she missed him so badly.

she holds him at his base, meeting his eyes as she slowly takes the tip in her mouth. she watches his toned body curve as he bucks his hips with a groan.

“fuck,” he whispers. “wait, wait.”

he shifts to his side, turning his nightstand lamp on so that he can see her better, instead of doing this in the dim of the sunset.

he lies back down, placing eager fingers at her roots, desperately guiding her back to where she was.

their eyes lock as she lowers again, her tongue hot against him, slowly sinking until she has all of him in her mouth. she softly gags and pulls back, leaving his length wet with her spit.

“you’ve been working so hard, hmm?” she asks, looking at him as she palms him slowly, dragging her hand over his slick hardness.

“yeah,” he says, voice strained. “fuck, i missed you so much.”

she feels better hearing his words. all the tension between them has dissipated, at least for now.

“i missed you, too,” she whispers. she wraps her lips around him again, feeling him twitch against the inside of her cheek.

rafe can’t take his eyes off of her. she moves slowly, carefully, her tongue flicking around him, her wrist twisting and stroking. his grip is tight at the roots of her hair as she starts to move faster.

he can feel himself getting closer. he doesn’t want to finish like this.

“come here,” he murmurs, cradling her head, leading her closer.

she obeys, hovering over him on her knees. his hands drag over her ass, running over the lace of her panties, squeezing hard as she lowers to press her lips on his.

they kiss hard and slow, over and over until she can’t anymore, breathless and grinding on him. his thumbs loop under the band of her underwear, pushing the fabric down.

she wriggles out of the lace and he grasps her waist to turn her onto her back, kissing her again, finding her wrists and pinning them tightly against his bed.

“i don’t think i’ll last long,” he rasps against her mouth.

“that’s okay,” she says. “i just want you to feel good.”

he so badly wants to tell her he loves her. but they’ve never taken that step, and if he does take it and she doesn’t follow, he might not survive the fall.

instead, he moves to rest his hand between her legs, inhaling sharply once he feels how wet she is.

“fucking dripping for me,” he praises. she spreads her legs wider and he trails up to her clit, starting to trace circles.

she arches her back, pushing against his hand, already getting close. her body is just as desperate and impatient for it as his is.

“i’m close,” she whispers within seconds, her eyes shut. he stares at her in awe, so damn pleased that he can do this to her and get her there so quickly.

“yeah? you gonna come on my hand?”

“yes, yes,” she breathes, her lips parted. “don’t stop, please don’t stop.”

rafe wants to kiss her, but seeing her pretty face twisting in pleasure is too good to miss. one hand keeps her wrist pinned above her head while the other works with fast, firm movements, bringing her closer.

“i can’t wait to be inside you,” he groans. “you’re all i think about, you know that?”

she dips her head back, a soft moan spilling out of her mouth as she unravels, her body weakening with her orgasm. it hits her so hard that she trembles more than ever before.

she takes a moment to collect herself, then finds the strength to sit up just enough to grip him, guiding him to press against her. he groans as he starts to sink in her and she links her legs around him, pulling him in.

she presses her free hand against the head of his bedframe to steady herself so he can slam into her without any recoil, promising him the best sensation she can give him.

with one hand on her jaw and the other on her palm, interlacing his fingers with hers, he bottoms out, grunting against her ear.

“as hard as you want,” she whispers. “you know i can take it.”

her words make him dizzy. he doesn’t build up to the pace. suddenly, their slow, patient movements are gone, and he starts to thrust in and out of her fast and rough, to the hilt every time because of the way she’s keeping herself anchored against his headboard.

it’s like he’s drowning in her. he doesn’t want to come up for air. his breaths grow more shallow, his skin gets clammier, his pulse speeds up.

his bed is shaking with every slam, hitting deep inside her, wrapped in her heat and never wanting it to end. he squeezes her hand, wishing she knew just how grateful he is for her. not just for this. for everything.

“you’re mine,” he rasps. she tightens her legs around him, looking up at him as his handsome, sharp features crease in pleasure. “you belong to me.”

“yes,” she whispers. “i do. i do.”

rafe leans down to kiss her, his body going tight. she feels him grow harder, the pressure outright perfect, and he groans into her mouth as he comes, filling her with his heat.

he collapses on her, heavier than he was the last time they slept together. but she keeps her legs linked around him, withstanding the weight, running her hand down the curve of his spine while the other stays interlaced with his.

he’s panting hard. and he can’t control it when tears sting his eyes. she notices him shuddering, and she squeezes him tighter, kissing his cheek over and over again, her heart breaking for him.

“you okay, baby?” she whispers.

“yeah,” he says, and for once, he’s being honest about it.

all of this has been so hard and discombobulating, but with her here, life feels easy. and finally, he’s confident in something again. he knows they’ll make it. there’s no way they can’t.

“yeah,” he repeats. “hungry.”

she softly laughs, moving to wrap both arms around him. he’s so big and hard and heavy, but she tries her best to hold him, to comfort him.

“let’s get dinner,” she says. she knows his diet has been strict. “cheat day?”

rafe smirks against her neck. he didn’t know how badly he needed a vacation, and that he didn’t even have to leave his house to feel like he’s on one. he just needs her.

#ask #rafe cameron x reader #rafe cameron x y/n #rafe cameron x you #rafe cameron and you #rafe cameron and reader #rafe cameron and y/n

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tarjapearce · 1 year

Text

Strawberry Jam (Pt.2) +18

DadBestfriendAu!Miguel x fem!Reader

WARNINGS: MINORS DO NOT INTERACT. SMUT, Breeding kink, Body Marking, Rough sex, mentions of Exhibitionism, fluff, daily situations.

Pt. 3

Ever since your dad knew about you and Miguel, things at home were tense for a while. You always had to meet up Miguel either at his home or he picked you up.

At first, your dad gave you both the silent treatment, but seeing Miguel trying to be a good man for you, chipped away the anger. He never stayed during the nights and always visited you during the 'appropriate' mingling hours.

He always got you flowers at every chance he got, and always respected your boundaries. And then, you met Gabriela. The child was sweet and polite, yet sharp and quite the observer.

At first, your relationship with her consisted in her making questions, such as "You like my dad alot?" "What do you like the most about him?" and a bold one "Dad knows when someone is for the money. But so far you seem cool enough."

Gabriela was smart, perceptive and of course a daddy's little girl. You were worried that things with her wouldn't work out. Something you had told Miguel, once you reached the three month dating milestone.

Despite the stress, one of the biggest achievements in your life approached, your college graduation. Two more months to go and you'd be free from college.

Miguel had taken you to a new, lovely and expensive looking restaurant to have a private celebration, previous to your graduation. Miguel had asked you about Gabriela, and how the kid secretly admitted to him that, ever since you got into his life, he seemed more at ease, more of a cool dad. Happier even.

Some people around you stared as you both kissed. Of course you were aware of the snide comments done around you whenever you were with Miguel. Mostly accusing you for being a gold digger, or being manipulative enough to make Miguel your personal sugar daddy.

But to Miguel, you were none of that. And he made sure to always remind you what you meant for him.

------

With the graduation around the corner, two days actually, your dad finally just accepted the fact you were dating his best friend. Still he was squeamish about you being alone with Miguel while he was gone out of business, but so far he had kept his promise to not knock you up, despite Miguel's discontent.

"So... whatcha gonna do once you've graduated, cupcake?" He ate his dinner as he sat across you. It was just the two of you.

"Well, my career coordinator landed me a spot in Alchemax."

"Oh really? Where?"

"In the Informatics department, as Dr. Bushman's assistant."

"Does Miguel know?"

"Not yet. I wanna surprise him."

"Hm."

Your dad sighed and looked at you, with an unreadable expression on his face.

"You really like Miguel, sweetie?"

"Of course. I mean... He's the best man I could ever had asked for. He knows what he wants, and so do I."

"I'm just a bit concerned on how you'd manage to... be a mother to Gabriela at such young age"

"I know it's gonna be hard, and that she might get some time to get used to it as well, but, I told her that I wanna be someone she can trust, besides Miguel, someone she can come home to and just tell her how much an amazing kid she is, because it's true." You sighed and looked at him.

"I had none of that growing up, because of mom's doings. And if it wasn't for you, sometimes I wonder what kind of person I would've turned out. But... that's why I've decided to break the cycle and be that figure to Gabriela. She's just... so sweet dad. And Imma do my best. For her, and for Miguel."

"Would you marry Miguel?"

The question sending a bright flush on your cheeks.

"W-We haven't spoken about that. I mean, we've been only dating for five months now."

"Still, would you?"

"I would, yeah. He's too much of a good man to just let someone else that wouldn't treat him the way he deserves, get him, ya know?"

"You love him?"

"Yes. And I don't know if it's wrong to feel such intensity in such little time. Just hope he feels that way too."

"Ah, cupcake. Miguel doesn't let anyone into his life so easily. It took me almost two years for him to get to trust me. And look at you. You're already having play dates with his daughter, and doing great with him, he's really attentive and wants the best for you as well. If that ain't love, I don't know what is it."

-------

Graduation was over, the celebration with your dad, Miguel and Gabriela was a success, and soon, you were back with your dad at home. Your dad went to sleep and soon you changed into more comfortable clothes

The doorbell rang half hour later, you went to pick up, and to surprise you saw Miguel.

"Hey, come in." He kissed you in the process and soon, gave you a bouquet of roses.

"Thank you, they're beautiful"

"Congratulations, princesa. Where's your dad?"

"Sleeping. He was exhausted."

"What about you?"

"Hm?"

"Are you tired?"

"A bit. But if you wanna go for a walk, I don't mind. Just let me get my sneakers on."

You went to your room, and grabbed a pair of sneakers. You were lacing them, and the door behind you closed, the lock clicking. Big and strong arms picked you up and made you straddle his hips.

"My dad's sleeping!" You mumbled between gritted teeth

"Even better."

"You're such a perv." You kissed him as his hands removed your shirt and smirked upon finding bare breasts.

"Me? You're not wearing a bra, cariño." his mouth grazing your neck as his hands held you in place.

"Never liked them anyways." Your giggles were replaced by a soft moan as his fangs nipped at your sensitive skin. His fingers hooked in the hem of your shorts and panties to slid them out your legs, leaving you bare before him. The socks and sneakers were the only thing that dressed you up.

In all reality was that despite your dad's initial rejection to your relationship, that didn't stop Miguel to have his fun with you in other places in your home, before cleaning of course.

You had gone from the kitchen, to the porch, the thrill of of your neighbors catching you was borderline maddening.

Miguel had a thing for exhibitionism. And so you had discovered once you were fucking in the attic's window. In his car in the middle of a parking lot? check, your garage? Done. Had to wash the front of your dad's car since your silhouette was engraved on it. Shower? twice already. Stairs? of course.

You wore a dress and that was enough for him to take you in the spot.

"Now that I think about it, your room is the only place where we haven't had fun." He twirled you around and positioned in all your fours on the bed. The smoothness of your skin, displayed before him. Puffed labia waiting for his ministrations.

"Ass up, face down." He commanded as you flattened your chest down on the plush bed, obeying at his words.

His hands took yours as he made them grab your ankles. Spreading your soft flesh for him even further. He groaned at the sight as he licked his lips.

He removed his clothes, and kneeled behind you.

"Where was the last time?" His mouth pressed soft kisses in your inner thighs, and then he moved to your nub of nerves. Your body tensed at the feeling of his wet tongue dribbling up and down your slit.

"T-The living room" you spoke in between tiny, shaky whines, his tongue flickering with speed on your clit, you trembled and bit your lip to drown a shaky moan. The suckling and kissing noises sent chills down your spine.

He hummed and released your flesh with a small pop

"Oh, right. Had your dad sitting where you rode my face..." You groaned as the grip on your ankles faltered, his thumb rubbed in slow motions the already sensitive bundle of nerves.

"Where you rode me" He nearly whimpered as the memory replayed in his mind. He sunk his face once more in between your folds, holding your hips in place, eating his food with such delight it made your toes to curl in.

"Dios, te veías tan preciosa montándome." (You looked so gorgeous riding me)

He growled and slapped your rear, that only jiggled and flushed softly in response.

"Bouncing over and over, tryin'to make me cum inside this tight little pussy..."

Your hips bucked by instinct at his words, Your folds glistened both in arousal and his spit. You were turned around and got your knees bend up to your shoulders, folding you into a mating press position. His wide shoulders flexed as his hands maneuvered yours to hold yourself in place.

"You trying getting knocked up, hmm?"

"Y-Yes" You hissed in between soft pants.

"Oh..." Your heart and pussy throbbed at his expression. Goosebumps making your skin crawl, you could swear from the light that his eyes glinted red, his breath hitched. As if waiting for so long for you to say such words. And now that you had granted him permission, there was nothing holding him back.

God, What had you done?

A flicker of fear crossed your features as he smirked. His fangs in full display for you. He guided his tip and stroked it against your folds to then sink himself in you. He shuddered at the warmth and tightness welcoming him.

"Fuck" he groaned and looked at your face as he entered you, you choked a sob.

"Let's make a mami out of you" His words slurred an octave lower. He groaned and his hips smacked yours.

You gasped and he covered your mouth with a single hand.

"But you gotta be quiet, princesa. We don't wanna wake up your daddy when we're making a baby here." His hips rammed yours and your eyes went shut, inhaling sharply against his mouth. He remained deep buried, unmoving, relishing the heat your cunt provided.

His weight crushed your body, keeping your legs folded as he hovered over your face. His other hand craddled you, and his hips rolled again, earning a shaky whimper from you. He was going slow on purpose, a pace you weren't used to.

You could feel every inch digging inside you, stretching your flesh and poking at your cervix.

"Te vas a ver tan chula" (You're going to look so beautiful)

He breathed as he nibbled the skin of your neck, grazing his fangs, to then bit. you could only groan and sob into his hand.

"Round and swell with my kid growing inside you" His whole body kept you folded, as he slowly fucked its way into you. He refused to give in as you rocked your hips against his, urging him into a faster pace.

He was low and steady, mumbling how well you were taking him, how he couldn't wait to milk your breast once you got pregnant, and how pretty you'd look in his big shirts, belly popping out all while he kept fucking you in a torturous slow pace.

He kept cooing and mumbling things in spanish that you didn't understand, but his cock kissing your womb over and over, grazing sweetly at your spot, made your toes curled in.

"You cumming mi amor?" You nodded weakly as he pressed tighter on your mouth, your breath hitched and your body went taut.

"Esoo" (That's it) He kissed your temple and removed his hand, you gasped for air, panting and heaving as your insides trapped him.

"P... Please" you whimpered and looked at him as he repositioned himself above you. Both his hands held you now in place, giving him more access into you.

"Please what?" he gave a condescending smirk your way as he hoisted his hips upwards, without leaving you completely

"H-Harder" you croaked and he let his whole weight to fall on the firm and deep thrust. Your jaw clenched as he stretched impossibly deeper inside. Tears pooled at the corner of your eyes and he lifted his hips once more, air knocking out of your throat

"Sweet girl wants me to fuck her harder?"

You nodded dumbly, his tip stretching your entrance.

"Please!" you begged with a mewl. Mouth went slack open as he rammed his hips. Your breast bounced in between your hoisted thighs as you shook with every thrust his body mustered. He wasn't holding back. The room was filled with the sounds of his growlings, your mattress creaking under your weight, menacing to cave in the sturdy wooden frame and the constant slapping of flesh.

All you could hear was a

Slap a pause slap slap slap slap

Tears rolled down your cheeks as pleasure screwed up your judgement. Your mouth opened, ready to voice out your pleasure, but a hand on your neck prevented you from doing such nonsense. Fire licked at your skin

Your folds received him with a squelching suck each time he ventured deeper. It felt like you were made specially for him. So ever hot and tight no matter how much his cock stretched you, over and over.

"You're being too noisy, mi amor." He squeezed and you gasped. Air slowly leaving your lungs as he fucked the daylights out of you, just the way you were used to. This time however, you weren't on contraceptives anymore. And that fact alone was dangerously thrilling for him.

You didn't know what made you hotter, the fact you were actually trying in making a baby with Miguel while your dad slept, and he was making everything for you to be loud, or the way he always seemed to ravage you in hopes to get you pregnant.

But dizziness took over and your nails clawed at his squeezing hand as he came first with a deep growl, spurting all his seed deep in you. Hot and flooding your insides. Your muscles spasming only welcomed his cum deeper, your eyes rolled back.

"You'll be such a good mommy for me." He panted and let your neck go, his mouth kissed softly at your marked skin. Red handprint glowed on your flesh as you wheezed and panted for air,

His eyes softened at your blissful blown face, to then pepper you with kisses. You were trying to find your voice as your numb hips finally went back to a natural and laid back position. Legs shaking softly. Breaths coming steady, He stared at you, a warm feeling spreading on your chest.

"I...-"

"Cupcake?" You dad spoke from the other side of the door.

You froze, Miguel chuckled silently

"Uh, yeah?" you rasped, trying for your voice to not sound as hoarse as it was

"I'll go to the store. Want something?"

"Some cherry cola, please."

"Gotcha. Be right back."

His steps faded until you could hear the main door being closed and his car revving. You couldn't help but giggle, he followed and kissed you.

----------

"You ok?" Miguel handed a papercup full with coffee to your dad as he watched you going through some some bridal gowns.

"Yeah... Just... She's getting married."

"Hm."

"To you."

Miguel frowned and your dad smirked with mirth.

"I once asked her if she would, but seeing this turning into a reality is... overwhelming."

The both men watched as you and Gabriela scrunched their noses at a particular dress and then laughed.

"Bad timing then."

"Hm? For what?"

"She's been moody and emotional lately."

"... Shut up..."

"I kept my promise didn't I?"

Your dad only rubbed his face and sipped his coffee.

"Guess you did. Nothing I can do about it I guess."

Miguel's eyes followed you as you took Gabriela's hand and led her to another section of the bridal shop.

Despite your request of being a private and intimate ceremony, Miguel still insisted into wearing a white dress.

"Would it be fucked up to say that I'm glad you're the one marrying my little cupcake?"

"Very. Still.. Glad you understand that I'm serious about it. Does her mom know?"

"Yeah, didn't care. Never did, actually."

"I see."

"As long as you're making her happy, that's all I care about."

"That's a promise."

"Im sure she'll buy waterproof makeup, she's quite the-"

"Crybaby? Yeah. I know. Quite adorable when her nose goes all red."

Your dad chuckled. As messed up the whole thing was, according to some of his most trusted coworkers, he felt a huge weight being lifted out of his shoulders.

-------

If you wanna be added to nsfw related fics of Miguel let me know!

Taglist:

@um-well

@capmedusa

@migueloharaslxt

@thbidkbutok

@joestarbitch

@angelarcheangel

@ewan-tef

@gejo333

@hyunrelics

@topreice

@luvstich

@loonalockley

@allysunny

@punk-22

@jesterglitch

@sc4rltwitch

@roselove105

#miguel o'hara #miguel o'hara x you #miguel o'hara x reader #atsv miguel #miguel o'hara smut #female reader #spiderman 2099 x reader #spider man 2099 smut #miguel o'hara fanfiction #miguel o'hara fluff #atsv fanfiction #atsv smut #DadBestfriendAu

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noveauskull · 4 months

Note

if you write a yuanwu one shot or ANYTHING to do with him I will go clinically insane from happiness you’re not he only one out there who loves him don’t worry!!!!

Yuanwu Helping Inexperienced You In Bed (NSFW)

characters: yuanwu x reader

warnings: 18+, smut, age gap, oral (f! receiving), fingering, thigh fucking, penetration (piv), sweet talk, pleasure dom yuanwu, inexperienced reader (not virgin)

-----

"Pardon?"

Yuanwu looked down at you with wide eyes, shocked from your sudden confession.

"I-I, well- don't make me repeat myself, gosh" Your face turned red in embarassment. You had just told Yuanwu about your sexual experiences, which is very little.

"Oh there's nothing to be embarassed about, young lady" He chuckled for a bit, before looking back at you with sincere eyes.

"If you want, I can help you get a bit more experience in that area" He suddenly offered, now it was your turn to be shocked.

"Huh?"

You suddenly found yourself on Yuanwu's bed, no longer wearing anything underneath as his face was in between your legs, everytime he exhaled you could feel a warm breeze on your pussy, making you want to instinctively snap your legs close, but you can't, cause Yuanwu was holding your thighs with a firm grip.

"Y-Yuanwu..." You called out, your voice sounding smaller than before. Like if you raised it any higher you might start something you would regret.

"Shh, it's okay. I'll teach you everything you need to know, young lady" Yuanwu assured, his thumbs rubbing circles on your inner thighs, tickling you a bit.

You watched as he inched his face closer to your already wet pussy, you felt embarrassed that you were already wet when he barely touched you, but the idea that an experience man like Yuanwu himself with you in bed was exciting in a sense.

Fuckin' daddy issues...

You bit your lower lip in thought, before letting out a small gasp. You felt something wet yet soft swipe itself on your clit, the sudden impact made your thighs try to close itself, but you held back when you remembered that Yuanwu was the cause of your reaction.

The realization that Yuanwu was using his tongue on your pussy made you blush, you had to cover your face in hopes that whatever expression you were making on your face wasn't able to be seen by Yuanwu.

You felt another few licks on your clit, they started out slow at first so that you could hold back your moans, but it seemed like Yuanwu caught onto what you were trying to do, and to encourage you, he'd fasten the movements on his tongue, forcing a moan out of you.

"W-Wait-" You moved your hands from your face, now your hands gripped onto the sheets, eyes fluttering shut with a pant.

"Mmh.. Don't be shy, come on my face" Yuanwu said, his face never leaving your cunt that you didn't know was already dripping from his saliva and your juices.

Your eyes widened at his words before struggling to keep itself from rolling to the back of your head with a twitch on one side, your body shaking from how intense his mouth was.

"N-No way! I-I- ngh! I can't c-cum o-on- mmh" You tried to tell him you didn't want to cum on his face, but despite him knowing what you were trying to say, it seemed like he won't listen to you.

"Don't be embarrassed, go on"

He took his lips off that were sucking on your clit with a pop, his fingers wiping itself on your slit in an up and down motion, as if his fingers are threatening to enter in you before his lips latched back onto your clit again, pulling out a loud moan from you.

If Yuanwu kept sucking on your clit you would be able to hold in your orgasm for a bit longer, in hopes of cumming when his face isn't close to your cunt, but then you felt something solid go inside you, immediately touching your sweet spot that had you cumming almost right away.

You couldn't help letting out another loud moan, whimpering when you felt Yuanwu's thick fingers thrusting in and out of you persistently, in just two or three more thrusts you could feel yourself cumming.

Grabbing onto the sheets even tighter before, your eyes finding a new place on the roof of your head, where your eyelids were, you could feel the pressure of his soft wet tongue never stopping for a second to caress your clit and is tongues bullying your hole, forcing an orgasm out of you.

You could barely make any noise at that point, your mouth hanging itself open as you finally came. Your juices overflowing itself onto Yuanwu's bearded chin that had been teasing your hole when his mouth was on your clit.

You couldn't help yourself from all the twitching your body and hole was doing. You felt like you came a bit too fast, but it was to he expected, Yuanwu was undoing you like he knew your body from ever centimeter.

When you finally calmed down, you could feel Yuanwu give your oversensitive clit a small kiss before sitting up, using his thumb to wipe any of your juices on your face to lick it off.

"Are you okay? Can you keep going?" Yuanwu asked, using his hand that hadn't been touching your juices to caress your face that looked completely out of it.

"Mph, y-yeah" You answered without a second thought, despite being pretty satisfied yourself you wanted to help Yuanwu feel satisfied too.

"You sure? You don't have to force it" He said, wrapping his arms around your back before lying down next to you.

"I'm fine..." You forced your hooded eyes to look awake, staring into his dark blue ones as you watched him smile at you.

"Alright then, if you say so" He used his arms that was wrapped around your waist to turn you around, now your back was facing him while you laid down, making you confused as you waited until he said something.

"Is it okay if I put it in, young lady?" His hand trailed to your thigh, without realizing your hole clenched at both his movement and words.

"O-Okay..." You nodded, feeling something thick and hard go in between your inner thighs that were still wet from earlier.

You realized that Yuanwu's dick was now in between your thighs, trying to coat itself with the wetness of your juices and his saliva, you could feel Yuanwu place his head on your shoulder.

With a few slow thrusts in between your thighs, you felt Yuanwu's hands grab your waist, forcing you onto your back as he stood in front of you with his knees on the bed, hands then moving down to spread open the plush of your skin that was covering your soaking wet hole.

"Tell me if it hurts, okay?" He said, before you could nod you already felt the tip of his dick push itself onto your hole, alarming you until you felt him continue pushing in, now more than his tip was inside you.

You let out a cry as you heard him groan from the combination of your pussy's tightness and wetness at once, you almost thought you were going to cum when he had just put it in, so you instinctively clenched around his cock which made Yuanwu surprised at your reaction.

"U-Ugh! Relax..." Yuanwu leaned down to place his forehead on yours, hand on top of your head to pat you while he continued to push his length inside you, you could feel your own juices trailing down your ass the more he pushed in.

Your hands latched itself onto his back, noticing that his movements have that stopped, and how full your hole feels from just having his cock inside. You let out a few small pants and whimpers, trying to catch your breath after all the noises you let out of your mouth, it really has been a while since you last did it with anyone.

"Shh, it's okay. I'm already in" Yuanwu whispered, you could feel his hand moving on the top of your head to pat down on your hair.

The comforting gesture could almost lull you to sleep, your wide eyes from earlier that were in shock became hooded and lewd, like you were in a daze. And it encouraged your pussy to lessen it's grip, giving Yuanwu more freedom to move around when he pleased.

After what seemed like 10 seconds of you trying to stable your breathing and your pussy clenching and twitching around his cock everytime he pat his hand onto your head, he finally decides to move around you.

"I'm going to move, okay?" He looked into your eyes, waiting for you to signal him to move, so you gave him a nod.

You could feel him move out of you, which led to small gasp when you felt your hole pull around his cock, feeling your juices spill out a bit before he goes back inside to touch your deepest spots, you bit your lip to prevent yourself from making any stupid sounds.

Then Yuanwu did the same motion again, you could feel yourself getting wetter again from his thrusts, not realizing he's been picking up on his pace until he managed to get a moan out of you.

The moment you let one tiny sound out, you couldn't hold yourself back from the others that came after. Your hands moved from Yuanwu's back to his biceps, gripping them to hold you still before he thrusts another into you.

And he does this while remembering where your spots were, continuously pressing it until he could see the tip of your nose go red and your eyes water from how much stimulation he was giving you.

Before you knew it, you couldn't even see anymore. That's cause your eyes kept rolling itselves onto the back of your eyelids, trying to find a way into your brain instinctively, all while you felt yourself getting close.

Yuanwu knows that you were getting close, but unfortunately, he himself wasn't close yet. Though he'll just have to take care of himself later, since he knows having you cum twice is already enough.

He gave you a small kiss on the forehead, his hand holding your hair still from moving as he continued to thrust into you. Groaning when he feels your pussy clamp around him once more before he forces your orgasm to come out.

Without realizing, your nails dug itself into Yuanwu's skin, you let out a cry before your legs wrapped itself around Yuanwu's torso, then letting yourself twitch and shook from the orgasm you were having, having all your juices overflow onto Yuanwu's cock.

Once you finally calmed down, you let out tiny moan when you no longer had Yuanwu's dick inside you. But you could still feel him as if he was inside you forever, you pressed your lips together as you felt your hole instinctively clench around nothing.

You watched as Yuanwu laid beside you, his arms wrapping around your torso as he gives you a long, deep kiss, you could still taste yourself from an hour ago mixed with what tasted like tea in your mouth, instictively making you let out a noise.

When he pulls away from the kiss, he stares at your teary face, smiling at how cute you looked when you were fucked out.

"Was it good? Do you want more?" He began to ask, hand caressing your cheek.

"Y-Yeah, it was good..." You said in a raspy voice, eyes trailing down from his chest to his still hard cock.

"Yuanwu... You..." You muttered, pointing out his erection as he chuckles at you.

"It's okay, I don't need to continue if you're tired" He assured, and all you could do was frown.

You didn't want him to be unsatisfied, so you sacrificed his kindness by turning around and pulling the sides of your skin to reveal your gaping wet hole, head peaking from your shoulder as you looked at his shocked face.

"I'm fine so... please cum inside me" You had to force yourself to sound confident when you asked him that, bur regardless of how you asked him, he seemed very happy.

"Are you sure, princess? I don't want you to be scared of me later" He joked, but you could tell he was down to continue when you saw him grip his cock.

"I won't be scared, and I wanna feel you cum in me" You muttered, avoiding eye contact with Yuanwu as you realized halfway how embarrassing you sounded, not noticing how Yuanwu's cock twitched at your words.

"...Okay"

You heard him say in a deep voice before you felt himself push inside you easily this time, in one movement too. Your eyes widening in shock as you removed both you hands off your ass that was holding it open, now gripping onto the sheets from Yuanwu's cock suddenly filling you again.

"I'll only come once, okay?"

You hear Yuanwu say before he starts sending you powerful thrusts, you could tell that he was holding back before, by a lot.

In the end, both of you were satisfied. And ever since this day, the two of you had began a relationship you would have never expected.

-----

A/N: THIS IS FOR THE TWO REQUESTS THAT WANTED A YUANWU ONESHOT!! ty for the requests guys and I hope you enjoyed this (ik i did)😚😚👐

#wuthering waves #wuthering waves smut #wuwa #wuwa smut #yuanwu smut #wuthering waves yuanwu #wuwa yuanwu #yuanwu #noveauskull #answeredbyskull #wuthering waves x you #wuthering waves x reader

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badass-queer-couples-battle · 5 months

Text

⚔️⚔️ Sword gays showdown, grand finale ⚔️

*Camilla fanart by @friendamedes, used with permission

Propaganda:

For Camilla:

she prefers dual-wielding two short blades but can fight with pretty much anything. she's ambidextrous she's autistic she's even sex-repulsed ace. she sighs longingly when reunited with her weapons. she's from planet academia and dresses like an off-duty librarian. literally one of the most iconic moments of the entire series is when she gets challenged to a duel and absolutely wipes the floor with her opponent even though she doesn't even like rapiers that much. 'swords don't lie.'

OK I’m sure you’re getting just about every character from The Locked Tomb but Cam is my favorite. She's a nerd AND a jock. She is in this deeply intense and loving and unhealthily codependent soulbond partnership with her best friend second cousin and prince. She is smart and deadpan snarky and fights like a grease fire and I have never been able to get that line out of my head.

For Gideon:

she's incredibly good w/ her two hander and less good with her rapier but she's still pretty good!! she is a horny lesbian who's taste in women seems to exclusively be "girls who have tried or are going to try to kill her". she's a redhead. i love her

Gideon’s a HUGE Butch lesbian and literally always wanted to use a broad sword. Specifically a broad sword. She said fuck rapiers. Uhhh literally dies to save the girl she cares for and the sword she uses then becomes like an altar for said girl. Gideon Nav Supremacy <3

oh she is the most badass swordswoman lesbian in media. she’s her gf’s cavalier, defends her in battle, she’s incredibly butch and buff

C'mon shes THE sword lesbian like... canonically

Loves her broadsword more than anything on her home planet and practices whenever she can. Spoiler it’s possessed by her mom. Gave everything so her best enemy could eat her soul and become the new saint. The character of all time child of two separate threesomes, child of the god emperor, she’s dead, she’s butch, she’s a dork, she’s doomed by the narrative. She’s my favorite.

girlie is literally the swordswoman supreme. she’s the cavalier primary to her necromancer. she has a fuckoff huge longsword. she gets absorbed into another person SPECIFICALLY to swordfight for them. in a gay way too.

While everyone else was developing common sense, she studied the blade. This dyke's main weapon and true love is the long sword, but she's also passable with a rapier. The sword is, in her own estimation, pretty much all she's good for. That and her smoking hot bod and terribly charming sense of humor.

"While we were developing common sense, she studied the blade." (Direct quote from the book). She's the most useless lesbian to ever exist, and she's obsessed with an absolute wet cat of a woman. Learned longsword mostly on her own and is such a genius with the sword she learned rapier in a few months (by personal experience, it's really really hard)

Most badass broadsword wielding lesbian easily slaying bone monsters and evil space wasps

The cavalier to her necromancer. very gay. in a complicated codependant lovehate relationship with the only other person her age she knew growing up.

For Xena:

It is HER! The OG woman with a blade!

Her show was so iconic that any lesbian over the age of 30 knows her IMMEDIATELY because this show probably helped her have her awakening. Fandom foremothers and fathers rise up and get your gal a title.

An all around badass, bisexual woman, comfortable with many different bladed weapons. Her show was so much better than Hercules people forget his exists.

Xena is one of the OGs: once a baddie who turned good, she's a warrior who uses swords, daggers, and her trusty chakram to defeat evil and defend the innocent, while traveling with her kickass girlfriend Gabrielle.

She has many skills

#sword gays showdown #camilla hect #gideon nav #xena #tlt #the locked tomb #xena warrior princess

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creedslove · 1 year

Text

MEANT TO BE ❤️‍🔥

No outbreak!Joel Miller x f!reader

Summary: You and Joel seemed you were meant to be, but he broke your heart thinking he was doing you a favor. You're back in town and Tommy ends up inviting you to his brother's birthday party

(I don't know if this will be a series or not, but enjoy it ❤️)

Warnings: screwed up timeline (no outbreak but the story takes place nowadays, Joel's in his mid/late forties, Sarah is in her late teens/early twenties), age gap (reader is in her mid/late 20s because well, she's me), angst, hurt, breakups, broken hearts, two idiots in love, fluff

A/N: I don't know besties, this is just a very specific scenario that got stuck with me for DAYS because all I do is daydream I'm Joel's housewife and well, I had to write it down eventually because just imagining it wasn't enough I had to share. Also, this is extremely self-inserted so I'm sorry if you guys don't like it but I deserve to be happy with Joel 😭

3.2k words

"So, you're breaking up with me Joel? Is that it?" You asked him, pacing the living room, trying to hold back your tears and not let the anxiety get the best of you just yet, and instead, look at the situation with a rational attitude. Joel couldn't possibly be breaking up with you, not after the time you spent together, - a short one, you had to admit, but it was enough to see you two were meant to be together. Everyone seemed to agree. His brother was nothing but nice and sweet to you, sometimes even protective of you, as if you were his sibling and not Joel, his daughter was thrilled to see her dad in a relationship after a lifetime of loneliness, even if you didn't see each other very often, only when Sarah was home from her school breaks, always making Joel the proudest dad to see her impeccable grades, a clear reflection of the scholarship she got, she was always so friendly, treating well the woman his dad loved, because she knew he deserved to be happy.

And your family? They really liked Joel too. Your parents admired him for being so hardworking and successful in his business, the way he managed to raise a daughter by himself and your grandmother simply loved Joel. She was a supporter of your relationship from the beginning, always telling you to ignore any mean comments you might get just because he was older than you or anything like that, she just loved to see how good Joel was to you, how happy he made you and what a gentleman he was whenever he visited your family, despite being nervous and blushing slightly like a young boy. And for that, your grandma always baked him cookies or cakes, just a small, sweet way to thank him for being so good to you.

So it came as a shock, when he broke up with you.

"Yes, Y/N I'm breaking up with you" he said simply and looked down, his heart clenched and he felt so upset to be letting you go, but he knew he had to, you had been offered a great job, a great opportunity, high salary and you couldn't just stay with him, living a small town housewife life, you had so much potential, you were so pretty and full of life, Joel didn't want to trap you there, you deserved better than that, you deserved to be successful and free, and not with an old guy like him, Joel didn't have the same education you did and he felt bad about it, he would never want to embarrass you because of it.

"You and I are never gonna work, we had our fun, it was nice, but you want to live your life and I've already loved through all that. I've been married and I'm not marrying you, Y/N. You want kids and I don't want any more kids, we're incompatible, can't you see that?" He said "just take your job and go live your life, think of us as an adventure and nothing else…"

You swallowed and took one step forward, grabbing his shirt and making him look at you "w-was I just an adventure to you?" You needed to know the truth, it didn't feel like just an adventure to you at least, it felt like true love, intense and real. You thought Joel was the real deal, you thought that maybe you found each other and you would stay together, of course the opportunity you received was good, but you were ready to give it all up. You'd never thought of your life together as something bad, you liked the simple, you liked the calm quiet evenings with Joel, you liked waiting for him with dinner ready after a long day of work, and all that because you loved Joel and up until then you assumed he loved you too. He sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose, his hand running through his hair as he sighed

"Yes, you were an adventure, you were a hot young girl giving me your attention and your body, I enjoyed it a lot at first, but now it's just getting old" he sighed, hating himself for breaking your heart, but he also knew that was the only way you would leave him behind and start living your life. He was lying, he would marry you, he had actually already bought a ring, a very simple one though, he wished he could buy you something better, but he had gone with the cheapest option and now he felt ashamed of it.

"Just… don't make this too hard on the two of us, leave and take the job, you will be happier that way" Joel turned his back at you and waited until he heard you slamming the door. He sighed and tried blinking back his tears, he hated to seem weak and vulnerable around whoever it was.

•••

Eight months had passed ever since you broke up with Joel, or rather Joel broke up with you. Eight months you'd left Austin behind and moved to a bigger city, got into a better-paid job and made more money. Eight months you were earning well but you were feeling miserable, because you were away from your family, your friends and the man you loved, even if he didn't love you back, even if you were nothing but an adventure to him, you still missed him everyday.

It wasn't just the sex - although that party took a heavy toll on you, as it was so intense, good and hot. You had never been fucked properly until Joel Miller fucked you, that was for sure. But you missed the everyday with him. The domesticity with him, the evenings spent together, the lazy weekends you would stay in his bed, just cuddling, sleeping, fucking and doing it all over again. You missed how his big, rough hands would hold you at night, how you would snuggle closer looking for his warmth, or how you'd play with his hair as Joel rested his head on your lap whenever he watched some cheesy action movie.

Yes, the money was good, you couldn't deny it was good being able to pay for your expenses and also save money and also spoil yourself to clothes, shoes, restaurants and anything else really, that part was great, but you would be lying if you said you wouldn't trade that for a happy life with Joel in a heartbeat; you hated to be still in love with him, he didn't deserve your love, you knew that. He had treated you just like an adventure, like an ordinary affair he could enjoy as he pleased and then discard you once he got tired of it. Still, it puzzled you how genuine he seemed, how caring and lovely he was towards you, how he actually made you believe he loved you. You felt cheated, tricked, and embarrassed to think you were so easy to fool like Joel had done to you.

One of the perks of your job, was able to take a few short trips to your hometown every couple of months, it was good to revisit your family, especially after your grandmother fell ill and you felt the need to see her as much as you could, but with those trips back to town always brought your fear of encountering Joel.

You didn't know how you'd react to seeing him again, maybe you would feel emotional? Or sad? Would your heart still beat fast? Probably a mix of those all.

You shook your head wanting to push those thoughts aside and got ready to enter the clothes store downtown when you heard someone calling your name. You knew that voice, but thought maybe you were just confused, but still, you turned around and saw as a smiley Tommy Miller walked towards you

"Y/N hey… you look great! Nice seeing you?" He was definitely the friendly brother.

"Hey Tommy, I missed you. How've you been?"

"Good.." he placed his hand on his hips - very similar to his brother - and the two of you made some small talk, catching up on things as you hadn't seen each other in nearly a year. "So listen… it's Joel's birthday today, I don't know if you remember" you nodded with a sad smile "and well, I'm throwing him a party tonight, maybe you should show up, I know he was a dick to you, but I'm sure he didn't mean it, he misses you a lot" you bit your lips and shrugged softly, and Tommy didn't need to say anything else. He just hugged you goodbye and told you again how nice it was to see you.

•••

"You did what?" Joel asked with annoyance and shock as his brother stood in his kitchen, a bottle of beer in hand as he placed the plastic bag with a few things for Joel's party that night. Tommy blew the air out of his mouth and scratched the back of his neck "what? You like her, I mean, no, you love her, Joel, so I thought you'd appreciate it if she showed up, it would be like a nice present to you after all" he shrugged simply as it made perfect sense in his mind. Joel, on the other hand, couldn't believe how stupid his brother was. How could he simply invite you as if nothing had gone on between the two of you.

"First you simply plan a party without even asking me, inviting a bunch of people I don't even know-"

"Because you have no friends…" Tommy interrupted and it made Joel's blood boil, he gritted his teeth and took a deep breath

"What I am saying is that I didn't want a party and now I will have to face a party I didn't want and possibly with the presence of a girl whose heart I broke and-"

"You broke her heart because you are a moron" Tommy shrugged again and folded his arms "you are a real big fat moron who can't see shit even if it's hanging in front of you! You love her and she loves you, and don't give me that pathetic talk about you not wanting to trap her because I know you bought her a fucking ring, Joel! A ring! And if you had proposed she'd be here, either planning the things for your wedding or you'd be already married, and don't start with the shitty baby talk either because you practically drool when you see her holding a kid, I'm sure if she asked you'd be on your second Miller kid right now!" Tommy told his brother, running out of patience at how stubborn his older brother was "so yeah, I invited Y/N and I doubt she'll come because you are a dick and you don't deserve her attention, in fact you don't even deserve this party, I was just trying to do something nice for you, so I'm sorry I'm such a terrible brother" Tommy groaned and went upstairs.

Joel didn't want to admit it, but he did spend the whole day checking his phone every five minutes to see if he'd get any messages from you. Joel was a man to receive and give phone calls, he didn't like texting, but most people insisted on doing that so he had to surrender, even his daughter would rather text than call, which Joel hated but he had to do it eventually. On your birthday, Joel spent the whole day battling if he should text you or not, on one hand he didn't want to simply pretend he had forgotten about your special day; on the other hand he didn't want to make things weird between the two of you, well, more like, more weird. What was he supposed to say?

"Hey babe, happy birthday 🎈 I know I said you were just an adventure but I miss you"

No, that'd be too awkward, so eventually he went to bed that day and ended up not texting you.

Another thing Joel didn't also want to admit was how he had showered, applied some cologne and put on the flannel shirt you always told him looked good in him before the party started. Fortunately, his argument with Tommy didn't change any of his plans and in the evening people started to arrive. Joel smiled politely, made some small talk, thanked people for the gifts but he kept glancing at the door frequently, always in hopes to see you walking in. He felt so stupid for even expecting that, so he tried focusing on his party. He saw the girls his brother had invited but didn't care about any of them; they all chatted and giggled and Joel watched it from afar as if he were an outsider at his own birthday party. Joel grabbed a beer and walked outside, sitting by the front steps and watched as the hours passed by and people eventually began leaving the party. He just enjoyed his own presence, knowing you wouldn't come, clearly you'd never come again and he had to face that, at the same time he silently thought of what his life had been like and what was left for him to do in the future, when a voice snapped him out of his thoughts.

"Joel?" You called him, hesitantly at first, as you swallowed and looked around, it was kind of crazy to show up at your ex's birthday party after he dumped you in a cruel way like he did, but you also felt like you had to do it, ever since Tommy had invited you, something in your heart begged and screamed for you to go see Joel even if it was the last time.

When he saw you, his eyes widened, he didn't trust them at first thinking it was just a trick of his longing imagination, but as you walked towards him, he could see you were real. And you looked gorgeous, making that fool old man's heart beat fast.

"Darlin'..." He said but you placed your index finger gently against his lips, the way his beard tickled you brought a warmth within and you felt like you could melt at that moment.

"I'm here just to wish you a happy birthday" you said with a sad smile and handed him a bag. Joel frowned softly, clueless to what it was but a soft smile appeared on his face as he saw it was his watch. He had forgotten about it as it had been so long since the last time he saw it.

"Remember your watch stopped working after we jumped in the pool on the last fourth of July we spent together? I had it fixed but then we bro-" you interrupted yourself "anyway, I know it's been a while but it's yours"

"Thank you darlin' I don't even know what to say… it's already a gift you're here tonight" Joel could swear he was blushing and that embarrassed him, he was a grown man and shouldn't be acting like that, but still, there he was.

"Did you get the cake?" You questioned him curiously and only then Joel noticed you had a second bag in hands

"I forgot" he rubbed the back of his neck and you laughed softly, that was just so Joel it felt kind of stupid.

"So this is yours too…" you offered him the second to which he grabbed it even more puzzled. Two presents? Joel Miller was a simple man, and quite shy, he didn't know how to act properly when he was given gifts, let alone two in a row and especially when it came from you.

It was his turn to laugh when he found a box with cupcakes inside. He raised his eyes from them and smiled at you, taking you by the hand with no warning and sitting you next to him, on the front step.

He helped himself to one and insisted for you to take another, and even if you should have just wished him a happy birthday and driven back home, you obliged and took a small bite of yours, and that cupcake was indeed really good.

After the cupcakes were long gone, you and Joel still caught up on everything: he told you about his job and you told him about yours; you asked him about Sarah and he asked you about your grandmother's health, just random, ordinary things like it should be between two people who once knew everything about each other and now spent long enough apart to step on eggshells around each other. Though the party had pretty much ended, Tommy's playlist was still at full steam inside the house and when Joel recognized that guitar strumming he smiled, the lyrics coming back to him as it took him back to one of his favorite moments with you.

"Listen, it's our song"

"What?" You frowned softly "our song? What do you mean?" You questioned curiously not exactly knowing where he wanted to get.

"Californication, it's our song" he blushed softly and felt upset to see that maybe you didn't remember the summer night you spent listening to music sitting in the back of his truck, and how you two sang it together. Maybe that wasn't as special to you as it was to him, but at that night he'd felt so young, so full of life and hope. You finally nodded and closed your eyes, listening to it and thinking of the same sweet memory you and Joel shared.

"I just didn't know it was our song, Joel" you said amused and he shrugged, getting to his favorite part of the song and taking your hand in his, your eyes locked as his lips moved

"Marry me girl, be my fairy to the world, be my very own constellation"

He sang along, even if it wasn't a romantic song, that part was for you, it had always been for you. When he saw you sing that specific part of the song for the first time he knew he wanted to marry you, he wanted you to be his fairy to his world and be his very own constellation. It was cheesy, but he didn't care, he was just in love at the time, and he continued so.

You blushed and looked down, knowing it was time to go, but before you could get up, he squeezed your hand gently

"Do you want to get inside?" His eyes were full of hope, maybe and just maybe you could say yes and you could maybe pick up from where you left off but you shook your head "I'm sorry, I have to go Joel" you got up and ignored his sad eyes, even if they were your weakness, you two were finished and there was nothing you could do about it.

"Joel?" You called one last time and he got up, walking to you, still hopeful you'd give him any crumble of affection.

"Yeah?" His voice was a soft purr, the anticipation burning bright inside of him

"Happy birthday" you said and went to your car, leaving him standing there, his mind full of might-have-beens and his heart breaking as it did every time you walked away from him.

_____

A/N: don't yell at me besties, i've had this idea of joel being sure he would want to marry reader (me/us) while listening to this part of the song and Californication is a very delicate subject as I sang this song in a karaoke session at the mall yesterday in front of hundreds of people and I was so nervous at first but then I relaxed and had such a great time and it was amazing 😭 I know it's not a romantic song but I want those lyrics to be about joel and his beautiful wife 😭 I hope you've liked it besties ❤️

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dreeki · 2 months

Text

ᯓᡣ𐭩.ᐟ ⊹ dance jam.

pairing: dancer!ni-ki x dancer!y/n

syn: y/n is new to the dance studio known for being the home of nishimura riki's dance team and goes there with no crazy expectations. nishimura riki has other plans.

warnings: none(?)

note: eng is not my 1st language, not proofread // ni-ki is both a dancer and a seasonal dance teacher assistant :]

+note: this is heavily inspired by my life and the things that have happened during some of my dance classes ^^

wc: 1.1k

☆ you anxiously woke up at 9am the morning of your first dance class at ni-ki's studio. it was a scary feeling to think that you would have to begin again, even with 10 years of experience under your belt. you were starting to outgrow your old dance studio; even with some great teachers, they were used to only teaching younger kids and you had just recently turned 18, making you unfit for the studio anymore.

luckily, you had been following nishimura riki, the greatest dancer you have seen, for some time and knew that the studio he went to was also open to older students, since he was only a few months older than you.

this seemed to be a great opportunity; in the past, you had wanted to go to his studio before but something, maybe fear, kept you from going.

the 2h class only started at 6pm, so you spent your morning and lunch fidgeting and pacing around the house like a madman. when it was time to get ready, you just picked a pair of sweatpants you had on your desk chair and a freshly washed baggy t-shirt. you packed your dance bag and made sure you didn't forget your water bottle and the black converse you were to change into before class.

once you arrived at the foreign building, you tried your best to go to the right practice room. after walking around the building for a good 3 minutes, you saw a group of teenagers around the same age as you huddled up at one of the rooms' doors. inside you could see through the glass door riki preparing the room for your class.

standing in between the unknown faces of the strangers that shared the same interest as you was a very awkward feeling. you wished to be a bit more open but it was just too hard. maybe once you start dancing it will be better; you've been told many times that you become a different person when you're on stage or dancing, so that calmed you down a bit.

the first thing you and the other students did, along with the teacher and riki, was to warm up really well. that's when you started to feel more at home. after that, the tall boy had to demonstrate the choreography you were about to learn in the following hour. watching his videos online was one thing, but seeing him so close and in his element felt like winning the lottery. it was almost an undescribeable sentiment; he looked so cool and charming while dancing and anybody noticing the way your eyes sparkle watching him smoothly move his body could tell you truly admired the boy.

now it was your turn to learn the combination of moves riki has previously showed the class. usually, you were a quick learner when it came to dance, but there was one certain move that you couldn't quite get. the teacher gave you a small break to take a breather and drink some water after she told everybody that if they have any questions you were free to ask her assistant.

suddenly, a small crowd of people was formed around ni-ki, so you waited a few steps further to ask your question. without meaning to, you heard the conversations started with the boy. "can we take a picture?" "can you sign this for me, please?" "would you be able to follow me back?" and so on.. that was until he let out a frustrates sigh and asked loudly if anybody had any questions related to the dance. "my moment to shine" you thought and stepped closer to ni-ki.

"hi.." you said quieter than you wanted to. the boy simply nodded waiting for you to continue. "i'm having trouble with this one move; i'm not sure what the timing is for it. could you please show me again?" the boy's gaze was so intense while you were speaking, maybe because he had a hard time hearing what you were saying over all the noise, but one thing you knew was that the stare made your heart race. "yess, of course! here, pay attention" and that's exactly what you did. "thank you so so much!!" "no problem!" and so, you returned to your place in the back with the whole choreography learned.

it took awhile for the rest of the dancers to memorize the entire dance and you were patient, as usual.

finally, it was time to be put into groups and for one lucky person to do the combo with the teacher and riki. some people don't get chosen at all, since there's too many people and too little time and that is what you thought your fate would be. but, ohh, how wrong you were. "now for the person that gets to dance with me and the amazing teacher we have here.."

ni-ki carefully scanned the place for the face he was looking for. following his gaze, you almost passed out when out of nowhere his eyes landed on you and the two of you made eye contact. "you!" what?! you looked around but everybody was just looking back at you. "yes, you!" it was the teachers time to speak. "riki and i decided you really compliment our dance style and we really love your fluidity!" wow.. you were ecstatic to hear that, especially since it was your first class after leaving your studio.

the recording went by in a flash and there you were now, checking to see if it was a good take. you were very satisfied with it, so that was your first and final take. after everybody else was done with their groups, the dancers listened to a few final remarks that were said and soon, you were all dismissed.

pleased with your performance that evening, you were heading to the changing room when all of a sudden someone grabbed your wrist in an attempt to stop you in your tracks. startled, you turned around, shocked to be met with the tall, charming figure of your favourite dancer, the one and only, nishimura riki.

"heyy!" he said in a tone meant to mask his nerves, but you could tell he was a bit hesitant for some reason. "hi.." you anxiously replied, thinking that maybe you had done something wrong during the class. "i was wondering.. are you interested in joining my team? i carefully watched you today and, i have to say, i really like your style and the way you prepare for a performance!" you looked at him in shock.

"oh wow.. are you serio- really?" "mhm!" he nodded cheerfully. "oh my god.. this is crazy but yes. yes it would be an honour to be part of your team!" "thank god!" ni-ki exhaled relaxed, as if he had passed the hardest exam of his life. "i was really scared you would refuse; a dancer like you must have many teams wanting to scout you" "you would be surprised to find out that i am actually on my own right now!" you laughed. "not anymore!" ni-ki brightly smiled at you.

who knew that this one singular class could change your whole life...

a/n: tysm for reading this fic!! 🫶 let me know your thoughts about it in the comments! if you liked it, likes and reblogs are much appreciated ☺️

#enhypen #enhypen niki #ni ki #nishimura riki #enha #enha x reader #ni ki x reader #enhypen riki #dance #ni ki fluff #enhypen fluff #enhypen imagines #enhypen scenarios #ni ki scenarios #ni ki imagines

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silverbladexyz · 10 months

Note

We saw dazai with reader who doesn't like him. What about dazai with reader who does like him, more than a friend

Uhhh please ignore the fact that I haven't written any requests in ages ;w; I hope you enjoy ❤

The image used is not mine. It belongs to it's original owner.

TW: None

Fell first, fell harder

Oh, heavens.

Just when had you fallen prey to this disgustingly nice feeling that accelerated your heartbeat and filled your stomach with so many butterflies that it felt like it would explode from the intensity?

Whenever he was in your presence, or whenever you looked into those beautiful brown hues as he talked to you with his irresistibly smooth voice, you could feel your chest constrict and your knees weaken helplessly as you fell prey to his endlessly charming appeal. It was painfully obvious that you were stuck pining after him, despite all the warning bells ringing in your head about the complexity of this man.

Yes; the man you had fallen for was none other than Dazai Osamu, the suicidal maniac who could outwit demons himself.

You should've seen it coming when you reciprocated his flirting one day.

It was initially to shut him up, as you were already having a stressful day with lots of paperwork and impatient calls to attend to. Despite being able to momentarily silence the man, you soon learned that it was the worst mistake of your life as his flirting had nearly doubled in both it's intensity and amount at the end of the day. Even when you knew he was only teasing, you were determined to get back at him. And you, like the unknowing, competitive fool you were, decided to challenge him to see who could fluster the other person first.

Soon, you found yourself wishing that the ground would split open and swallow you up whenever he dropped another impossibly smooth compliment that you didn't even see coming.

You would've already given up and told him of your feelings were it not for the fact that it was Dazai that you were crushing on.

At first glance, anybody would say that it was reasonable for you to fall for him. He was tall, witty, had a way with words, worked in a respectable company, and attractive; many people had helplessly fallen for his charm. The very same charm that he utilised as a weapon to manipulate others as he pleased.

Throughout the many playful banters and friendly conversations you had with him, you noticed how sometimes, his silly persona seemed slightly forced. How his eyes seemed to see through your very existence, finding out your darkest secrets and laying you bare to his sharp gaze. And how he never showed any genuine emotions, despite being an expert at reading them.

Plus the fact that he was a womaniser who still had countless admirers who were vying to have another chance with him, and he had rejected every single one of their advances. You were a personal witness to them, and each rejection made you rip up your feelings and toss them to the back of your mind, only for them to resurface as soon as he turned his attention towards you. Yet it was obvious that your feelings were in vain.

You gave a small sigh as you typed away on the computer, thinking about this complex dilemma you were in.

You knew that you should only stay friends with Dazai for your sake, but your heart just said otherwise.

"My my, you are sighing quite a lot today. Are you thinking about me and my irresistible charm, perhaps?~"

The butterflies resurfaced in your stomach again as you turned to face the cause of those damn feelings.

"Heh. As if. Instead, I was thinking how good it'll be if you actually did your work for once instead of pushing it all to me and Atsushi-kun to complete. It'll be a great help to all of us, don't you agree?" You gave your best agitated smile, despite wanting so desperately to scream out 'I like you!' at the top of your lungs and unbottle all those feelings you had harboured for Dazai.

"Ah, don't be maddddd! You know I do that because it's my love language! The best type of love language, if I may add!" He grinned cheekily, seemingly unaware of how fast your heart raced at his gorgeous smile. Your faux irritation quickly melted away into attraction and longing for him, already having gone past what friends normally felt for each other.

"Besides, I know you love me too much to actually make me do my dreary paperwork on my own.~"

Dazai's grin grew wider as his brown eyes gazed into yours; those same brown eyes which had drawn you in and made you captive to it's warm, bewitching stare. In fact, everything about him had made you fall, and fall hard.

He really was going to be the death of you someday.

Not too proud of this oneshot, but it really did exercise my rusty writing skills. I'm open to any criticism about my writing ❤

@circinuus @ashthemadwriter @sariel626 @dazaiyohane @xxelfmamaxx @nekokinax @yuugen-benni @i-just-like-goats

#silverbladexyz #bsd x reader #dazai x reader #bsd x gender neutral reader #bungou stray dogs x you #bungou stray dogs x reader #silver is back after a year of inactivity

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donnapalude · 1 month

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it seems to be a widely held opinion that claudia's attempt to be considered a sister was a sweet but unrealistic illusion. and i concur that you can't really stop being someone's daughter, insofar as the past can't be rewritten. but i don't know that i fully agree that lestat was "right" by saying you can't just change a family configuration. what he meant by it was accurate to the situation at the time, but i wouldn't say it holds universally.

translating the scene through lestat's lenses, what he meant to convey was that, by virtue of him being claudia's father-maker, it was impossible for them to renegotiate their power dynamic so that she could stop being subjected to his will. this due to a set of pragmatic considerations: i) in the context in which he was raised, there was little to no way for a child (or a wife) to obtain autonomy outside the patriarchal reach, and the situation in nola is not that different; ii) the difference in vampiric power between them; iii) his exclusive access to information and knowledge about the vampire world that would leave claudia and louis defensless without him. the factual nature of the power imbalance entails that by reworking the practical and societal conditions surrounding the family, roles can in fact change! there's still work to be done, but some years down the line from that scene a daughter will be able to stop being such! legally even! vampiric knoweldge can be gained and vampiric power also. it's still difficult to actually match your maker for both and there's the vampiric bond to account for, the role of which is not really clear yet in iwtv, but still the possibility exists. and despite the fact his words actually reflect lestat's worldview and, at the time of the scene, also the reality claudia and louis live in, lestat is also aware that some change can come. he has after all escaped his own patriarchs and abusers over time. and in fact he holds on even more tightly to those practical means of subjugation, because he knows everyone's role is predicated upon them.

apart from structural and material power, the specificity of a parent/child bond clearly contains other nuances. the main discriminators from other types of relationship are the intense responsibilities for caretaking (practical and emotional) that, ideally, should only flow one way. except this aspect also gets complicated, even in normal human relationships. once children grow and parents age, it is not uncommon for this paradigm to be inverted. and for younger children, heavy parentification over formative years eliminates the paradigm altogether. factoring vampirism in this makes the situation even more complex. as lestat is a father figure to both by virtue of being their maker, louis and claudia are in some ways also siblings under a shared authority. not at the beginning maybe, when claudia is so much younger that she would functionally be louis's child even if she was his actual sister. but that is certainly true later, as she matures and lestat is back to rule over them. on top of that, in the meantime, claudia also undergoes a more regular role-reversal, as for a time she is louis's sole caretaker while he is able to provide little but companionship to her. which is not only a change in the configuration of their daily activities. as a child your parents are not really full people: they exist only as the facet of their being that is supposed to provide for you. when you are forced to see them in their entirety, they inevitably stop being only your parents. other roles get added: friends, dependants, partners. but you can hardly go back to the before. and, as vampires have long lives, it is very easy for me to imagine the possibility of this kind of relationships going through a plethoras of iterations, until you feel little connection with the version of yourself that was once a child in someone's arms. this is not even touching potential incestual readings, because i am trying to stick to the show, which has mostly avoided them.

all of this is to say that framing claudia's proposal to be considered a sister as naive and unfounded fails in my opinion to capture the complexity of how actual families work and also the specific pain underneath this proposal. i don't think with her request claudia is simply trying to get flimsy recognition of a role that would make her feel less subjected to lestat's power (she knows she is not safe anyway). and i also don't think it's a way to justify exculpating louis to herself (she is already doing that by recognising his position as a victim of domestic abuse). although i do feel that with regard to louis specifically she at least sees a possibility to be a true sister due their solidal position as fledglings/children of lestat, while she would prefer being nothing to lestat and escaping him, i think what she is generally asking while she is stuck at home is simply for lestat and louis to recognise formally that their respective roles to each other have already changed substantially. lestat believes patriarchal power begets responsibilities over the family (protection from external harm, economic support etc.) and this regardless of the debate on how well he performs them and how hypocritical the system becomes when it doesn't include protection from the patriarch himself. and to an extent louis agrees (he also felt the same responsibility towards his family, although his patriarchal role was ill-fitting). but claudia is asking them to consider that actually the paradigm should be inverted and it is responsibility that should beget power. parents should have power over children only insofar as they have a duty to take care of them when they are unable to provide for themselves. even discounting claudia's age (as her mental age increasing while physically she remains a young girl complicates matters with respect to how much she needs louis and lestat to navigate the world) the fact remains that, by failing to give her care and protection, by withdrawing the support she was owed and leaving her to fend for herself, by actively harming her, they have renegated that responsibility and the power that comes with it. by making her take care of louis and then making her responsible for mainting the happiness of their marriage they have even shifted that responsibility to her. in other words, they have functionally treated her as an adult when it suited them, while still wanting to treat her as a child when they needed her to come to heel. this is why i don't believe her request to be neither delusional nor absurd. it may be naive in the sense that she is placing too much trust in two men that fundamentally do hold patriarchal values (although louis makes a good attempt at battling his). and of course she can never erase the fact that she was their daughter originally: even if betrayed, you never really lose the expectation of receiving that unconditional love that asks for nothing. if she was only sister, she would not feel the pain of disappointment. but saying it was inevitable and appropriate that they could only ever see her as a daughter removes a lot of culpability from them and frames her story as something that it is not. it implies that she was really only a child, that louis and lestat were correct in recognizing that and that the tragedy of her life stems from her inability to accept the impossibility of growing up.

i simply disagree. i think iwtv makes a clear case to say that claudia does reach emotional (if not physical) maturity and that she has all the abilities and responsibilities of an adult. so when lestat and louis don't recognize that, they are not right. or at least not fully. there can be sweetness in a parent's residual instinct for protection that does not translate to stifling. but in this case, they are also projecting their own desire for control (lestat) and guilt over failed father/motherhood (louis) on claudia and fitting her into the role that best serves the fulfillment of their needs. which could lead to the conclusion that her tragedy hinges on simply being an adult that is constantly infantilised. but i think it's a bit more complicated than that. in claudia's story childhood is not simply a cage to escape, its role is much more ambivalent. after her turning, claudia's world is still a place of magic and wonders. she has a colorful inner life, a joyously curious mind and a clear creative streak. she revels in the blood and the hunt and she is vicious only as a child can: there's no calculation to it, it just feels good! it's fun! she also has a measure of hope and faith in lestat and louis, and it's not perfect, but overall i think she feels protected and safe. killing charlie, seeing him burn, lestat's abuse, her sexual assault, all mark a violent end to this life in a way that irrevocably closes the door on it. she can never return to that girl that hides in her fantasies, she must face reality now. but the separation is not painless. a longing for it remains, in her search for the uncomplicated love of a new family and her desire to lose herself in plays and characters, to dream again for a little bit. however, a rejection is also there. that little girl was naive and knew nothing and bad things happened to her because of it. she must be strong and sharp now and never again be lulled in a sense of safety. what she is escaping here, is not the entire concept of childhood, but the powerlessness of it, which comes partly from the defenselessness of an innocent mind, and which her physical form and people's infantilisation keep pressing on her. claudia is not just a child wanting to be an adult or an adult treated like a child. her mind and body being at odds reflect the fact that she is somehow stuck between childhood and adulthood, subjected to the worst aspects of both according to the whims of others. what is tragic about her story does not relate to an unavoidable fracture in her psyche. it has everything to do with the very avoidable treatment she receives from people around her. and it is as much rooted in the fact that she was forcibly evicted from the ideal safety of her status as a child as in the fact she was forced to continously relive the lack of control in it. in other words, in the breaking of the illusion that children being brought to life and being subjected to parental power is always for their benefit.

the sister-daughter conundrum ultimately leads back to this. claudia's request to anoint her of her new role represents a desire to be at least spared of the hope of being treated like a daughter/child and move on by acknowledging the bitter truth that she is a sister/adult. however, the fact she needs to ask is very telling as is the fact she reverts to hope as soon as a new family is in sight. and i am sorry to always come back to her death by i find it difficult not to think about this circularly. her last glance at lestat also holds this contradiction to me. to say it's just condemnation or just yearning does not cut it. it must be both. it's a prayer already anticipating disappointment. it's a challenge to face her pain, belying the desire to have it recognised. it's a last request to be both loved as a child and respected as a woman. in my reading of her, i try to grant this request.

#interview with the vampire #iwtv.txt #claudia #lestat #louis #long post #absolute wall of text #i am so sorry i am unable to be brief i am not made for social media #like i still feel i didn't actually say a lot of what i wanted to say aaa

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covid-safer-hotties · 8 days

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As a new stronger covid strain spreading across Europe is identified, Zoe Beaty looks at the symptoms and how we’re still living with the virus four years after the world went into lockdown

Her morning coffee was the first clue. Earlier in the summer, Rebecca Jones made her usual pot at 8am, and took the much-awaited first sip. Only, it tasted off. “It was just horrible,” says Jones. She’d tasted it once before, back in 2020. “That’s when I knew it was Covid.”

During this year’s unsettled summer, Covid has been quietly lurking in the background of many people’s lives. Four years ago, the sense of urgency was still in its infancy – we would still experience two more nationwide lockdowns and UK death figures would reach 227,000 by May of 2023. Worldwide, that toll stretched to more than 7 million. We wore masks, we distanced ourselves, isolated – and worried.

The road back to normality was long and arduous, but very sweet for the majority. Our simplest pleasures – hugging, holidaying, not worrying about where a surgical mask is – for a while were consistently vocalised. It made sense that much of the thrill of being able to nip for a pint after work or do a food shop without queuing wore off relatively quickly.

For a while, it was almost a surprise when someone told you they’d tested positive. Isolation seemed silly again. But now, that confidence is steadily being chipped away at. A morsel of fear is back – but this time with little to no solid advice. And with a wider perspective of the new threat that long Covid poses.

Reports earlier this year found that up to two million people are living with long Covid in the UK, or one in 20 people who have contracted the disease. And according to experts a new ‘stronger’ variant is now spreading across Europe. First identified as the XEC strain in Germany in June, global health experts believe that it could be the dominant variant within months and cause a new spike when the weather turns colder.

Symptoms include tiredness, difficulty sleeping, shortness of breath and chest pain, among many others. The latest UK figures show there has been a 4.30 per cent rise in Covid cases week-on-week and England reported 1.465 hospital admissions up until August 30. Detailed data is still being collected on the new variant.

Most people will get better within a few weeks, but for others it could take longer to recover. People who smoke or who are overweight, who have been admitted to hospital due to the severity of their Covid symptoms in the past . or who live in deprived areas are most at risk. Age is also linked to “persistent symptoms”.

“Over the last few years, Covid-19 has become an illness that we have learnt to live with. But that does not mean it’s not still a deadly disease,” says Professor Mark Wass, head of the University of Kent’s School of Bioscience. “Data from the UK Health Security Agency (UKHSA) shows that over the last few months there have been 100-200 deaths related to Covid-19 per week.

“While Covid-19 is still deadly, for many symptoms are now similar to a cold – but there is always the risk of long Covid,” Wass adds.

This year’s “summer Covid wave” – a rise in cases – is difficult to prove. “The surveillance of Covid cases in the UK is far less intensive than it once was, so it is more difficult to track the rise and fall of waves of infection, or to assess the severity of different variants, or to know how effective the vaccines are against them,” Mark Woolhouse, professor of infectious disease epidemiology at the University of Edinburgh, told the British Medical Journal (BMJ) recently.

In our homes, the trend has followed suit. Most of us now only test as an afterthought. None of us are sure if old Covid tests are out of date. And we’re reluctant to spend £29.99 for one.

While it is hard to track infections, there has been an increase in the number of cases where Covid is recorded on death certificates in the UK in the past months. After a spike in January and February, numbers fell sharply until May when the lowest number of deaths in a week stood at 93, before climbing again above 200 on several weeks in July and August.

Being vaccinated reduces the risk of contracting long Covid by four times, some studies suggest – but, right now, only the most vulnerable are able to access a booster vaccination. Government vaccine advisers, the UK Health Security Agency (UKHSA) and the JCVI (Joint Committee on Vaccination and Immunisation) closed the spring campaign offering boosters to the over-75s, people in care homes or those who are immunosuppressed – on 30 June.

Wass says that vaccine programmes are now seasonal, no autumn vaccine programme has been announced – those who wish to be vaccinated must now pay £45 to £99 for a booster. “If you are eligible, then the advice is to get vaccinated. We know that the immunity offered by vaccines reduces over time, so getting vaccinated offers the best protection.”

Anecdotally at least, those unable to get boosters who catch the virus appear to be feeling the after-effects. And since knowledge of long Covid will only increase as the years go by, we’re learning of more cases or more severe cases.

One friend was diagnosed with Parsonage-Turner syndrome – a neurological condition that causes sudden, severe pain in the shoulder and upper arm – after contracting Covid in June. Despite being a healthy 39-year-old who regularly works out, he’s now living with consistent pain and weakness, which can last for months.

“At first I thought it was arthritis,” he tells me. About a week before he felt “unbelievably sharp pains” across his shoulder and he’d begun to experience brain fog and feeling faint. “The next day I was bedridden and by the end of day three I had a rash across my body.” The initial symptoms went away relatively quickly – but since then he’s been left with an incurable condition.

“The doctors said it was probably the virus attacking my joints,” he explains. “It means I can’t lift anything remotely heavy with my left arm. It’s been incredibly debilitating – especially as weight lifting is how I stave off depression.”

Others express the same difficulties and frustrations – at GPs who “treat it just like another germ”, or being “horrified and upset that no one tests these days, and expects you to be okay after a couple of days”. Olivia, 35, whose name has been changed, has been dealing with long Covid for almost a year. “It’s crazy being someone whose life has been so affected by Covid, and having these conversations with friends who are going around knowing they’ve got Covid, going to work, all those things.

“Because there’s no acknowledgement by society that it’s a bad thing if you catch it, or it can be. It’s way higher than you think.” Next week Olivia will move in with her boyfriend who contracted long Covid this summer. “We’re partly moving in so I can help look after him. A lot of the symptoms are the same as I’ve had.

“It seems mad that both of us could have it. But that seems to be the situation.”

Olivia had to take three months off her role as a programme director to try and recover – greatly affecting her work – an experience that millions of others share, some of them in extremes. This week the Wall Street Journal reported that “long Covid knocked a million Americans off their career paths”. “Years after infection, even answering email remains arduous for some,” they found.

BBC Breakfast recently ran a 15-minute segment on those who have contracted ME, or chronic fatigue syndrome, as a result of contracting Covid. They reported on cases such as young newlyweds James and Karen Hargrave.

While Karen, who has launched a campaign – There for ME, to raise awareness of their experiences – recovered from the virus and ME enough to go back to work part-time, her husband, previously a keen runner, can no longer function. He is now unable to speak – she hasn’t heard his voice in a year – and he struggles to swallow.

Rebecca Jones, from Holton-le-Clay in Lincolnshire, also contracted long Covid the first time she caught the virus. It left her with alopecia and fatigue and even caused her to fail a memory test for dementia, which she says was “terrifying”.

This time she’s been left with “ghost smells”, and disruption to her senses. Now, she’s unable to get vaccinated, despite previously being on the vulnerable list and can’t afford to pay for a private vaccine. Her menopausal hot flushes, which had been dormant for two years before she contracted Covid, have come back and have not stopped since, she says.

“I’ve even emailed my MP,” she says. “But I was just sent the same advice word for word as is on the NHS website. I can’t get vaccinated, even though I want to. In our group of friends, I’ve seen people get Covid and just ignore it and go down to the local. I just thought, how can you be so irresponsible?”

“If you have Covid-19, then the advice is the same as for other contagious respiratory diseases,” says Wass. “We should try to reduce their spread by trying to stay at home and avoiding contact with people.”

Still, many aren’t – or can’t – adhere to that advice. The disruption to work and personal lives has already been great and, while hybrid working continues to help stop the spread of infection of any kind, workers rely on the discretion of their employers to support those experiencing chronic conditions like long Covid. In the US, the condition has been registered as a disability, though it’s yet to be determined in the UK.

In the coming months and years, experts say we’ll be subject to more “waves” as the disease is “driven by a combination of new variants and a partial waning immunity to infection”, Woolhouse told the BMJ.

Will we begin to see a more conscientious approach to dealing with the virus? Those suffering the long-term effects warn that we should.

#covid #mask up #pandemic #covid 19 #wear a mask #public health #coronavirus #sars cov 2 #still coviding #wear a respirator

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delusionally-loveless-by-choice · 1 year

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Lost in a cornfield..? Pt2

Scarecrow!Phillip Graves x Lost!Reader

summary: You learn a bit more about Mr. Scarecrow! There's something he wants to show you? What can that be?

warnings: horror aspects coming in later in the chapter >:), mention of blood, likely incorrect depictions/references to wrong periods because I forgot that light bulbs weren't invented until like 1879 (googled it), he kinda turns dark so big contrast to the first part loll

w/c - 2k

Part 1, Part 3

Author's note: its ass and its got a part 2 :)) also on ao3 under Phillip graves tag. also I know this is not a Phillip graves gif, I just wanted something to fill in so I might change it later

Oh, God, what hell is this place? You can’t help the horrified look that sits on your face, it’s paralyzing and a moment of vulnerability.

One that the scarecrow catches.

He stares at you, watching the realization finally sink into you, and he can’t help the grin that stretches on his face as he watches your expression.

He sighs, clearly amused. “I don’t just protect this ‘cornfield’. In all honesty, this land is strange compared to the one you know.” His tone was matter of factly, “I’m a guardian of sorts, one that is bound to serve it. It’s more work than it sounds, but this job isn’t really my choice, more of a burden and purpose, y'know.”

“This land.. It’s dangerous.” He makes sure to face you directly as he says this, you can feel the intensity of his tone. “There are things in the field that would do anything in its power to take advantage of your vulnerability. It also doesn't help that you’re their favorite meal: human.” He says the last part with an air of amusement; and though he’s looking at you, the way his straw hat is tilted, it hides a clear view of his eyes.

His response doesn’t help your wariness.

The scarecrow seems to take note of this.

He then says, “But I’m not gonna let that happen.”

You nod and exhale a breath you didn’t know you were holding. “Well that’s reassuring.” You nervously chuckle. But it’s only slightly reassuring to your instincts that tell you that this field, this place, is more than dangerous.

"Just remember: this place has its creatures, but it has me too." He pauses, then adds: "I've lived here ever since I was a kid, so I know every nook and cranny of the field. Ain't no pest that's gonna sneak past me."

You see something move further within the corn. Graves snaps his fingers, and the plants rustle to block a pathway. "If we head left, we'll bypass these critters."

“Did.. did you just control the field..?” You ask bewildered.

"Yes... The corn is a living, breathing organism. I can influence its growth and motion to an extent. The plants listen to my will." The scarecrow replies simply.

He pauses, and grabs your wrist to make you look at him. "Don't worry. The field is friendly to me--I grew up here, after all."

You look up at him, you finally get a look at eyes. They were blue but there was a yellow haze that slightly glowed further reminding you he was far from human. Whatever he was, he was terrifyingly beautiful, in the sense that you didn’t know what he was. Perhaps he was just a true eldritch horror.

He pulls you along to walk after him.

No, he can’t be that.. Those are monsters after all.. and he’s a guardian, not a monster! You reassure yourself.

As you think and walk, you are reminded of his presence by the yellow haze of his eyes glancing toward you. He lazily turns his head away from you.

You can’t help but ask him, “How.. old are you, Scarecrow..?” this curious whisper of yours makes his ears perk.

He takes a minute to respond, as if he was thinking.

“I’ve been around for about… two-hundred and thirty years, or so.” He finally replies. “Thankfully my age and good looks don’t seem to go hand in hand,” he chuckles.

The scarecrow smiles, then adds: "I'm proud that I've kept this place safe for so long--doing my duty, serving my purpose."

You don’t do much to mask your surprise.

“Oh, that’s.. a long time..” You muttered.

Both of you walk for a bit, before you decide to speak again.

“Uh.. so is there ever an end to this field? Or where are we going?” You asked, it wasn’t in an irritated tone but it sounded so.

He let out a short dry chuckle. “Sort of.. the best you're getting for an exit or end here is the house.”

Finally with a smooth swift gesture with his hand, the corn in front of the both of you opens up.

There then lies a large acre of land, one that wasn’t infested with the corn. Though it was surrounded by the endless crop, in the middle sat a farmhouse.

It looked abandoned. A home that hadn’t taken up well with time.

The white paint was peeling, the wood of the home looked rotten. One storm, and the house is reduced to nothing.

Yet, there the home stood.

As he walked towards it without a second thought, you were gagged.

Oh fuck, you distastefully think, but if he said it’s “a way out”.. Guess I shouldn’t judge..

“Follow me, this big ol’ thing has too many hidden entrances and exits.. I’ll take you through the safest.” he gestured for you to follow him as he made his way to the back of the farmhouse.

You politely nod and follow him, trying to mask the faces you make at the house.

He turns around to face you, walking backwards as he proudly says, “This beauty is the safest place to escape to in the fields.”

You smile at his pride, it's admirable and slightly adorable with that grin he has on.

Though, as you look at him, your eyes trail down to his left side. On his waist, his flannel shirt adorns a large red stain.

You grab him by the arm and make him stop walking. A worried face plastered on, you ask, “A-Are you bleeding? Oh God..!”

"Huh? Oh, this?" The scarecrow asks, looking down at the stain, he seems unconcerned by your discovery of blood on him. "It's nothing, just old blood. I've been hurt in these fields many times before, and I've made it out alive."

“But this blood, it ain’t mine, darlin’,” he says with a sheepish grin. Almost like he’s trying to reassure you. But it seems to do the opposite, until you remember the encounter you two had earlier with that critter, as he calls them.

“Oh..” you mumbled.

He gently pried your hand off of his arm, and started walking again. This time he directly leads you to the entrance he was talking about.

There are weeds, and junk, and rotten pieces of wood lying around. Then finally, there is a shitty little “door” that looks more like someone tried to board a window up instead of a door.

He unhooks the latch and pries open the door.

A wave of dust and spiderwebs go flying, and inside there lies only darkness.

“C’mon, let’s head in.. there’s something I wanna show ya..” he says excitedly.

You watch him duck and make his way in, and it doesn’t take longer than three seconds for you to follow after him in fear of being left behind.

It seems it was a basement of sorts that you entered through. It was dark so it was hard to see, but his blue eyes held that yellow glow that seemed to be all he needed to see.

He walked up some stairs and unlocked a door, one that presumably led to the main level of the farmhouse.

“This way!” he called over to you.

You followed him deeper into the farmhouse.

He was slightly more ahead of you, solely because you were simultaneously looking around at the inside of the farmhouse.

In the main level of the home, there was some light shining from the orange hued sun outside that came in from the boarded up windows.

The house smelled of wet wood and dust. Not surprising.

What was slightly surprising was the furniture and general state of the home. The furniture looked so old.. very 1790. If the home was well taken care of maybe the entire place would seem homely.

Instead it felt haunted.

Not innately sinister, but just abandoned. By the owners and time.

You finished looking and turned a corner to find him.

He stood at another staircase, holding his straw hat.

This one clearly led to the second story.

“All done?” he asked with a grin as he set the hat on the railing of the staircase.

“Guess so..” You mumbled and grumbled. “I thought you were taking me out of this place, not deeper into it. This farmhouse is probably dead in the center of this place with all the endless cornfield surrounding it!”

“In time,” he quickly says, “right now it’s best that you’re here. The farmhouse,” he pouts his lips in a manner that makes it seem like he’s picking his words wisely, “has its own set of.. securities.”

His eyes make it back to yours, and before you can answer he speaks again. “Now you ready for what I wanna show you?” he asked with a grin.

It was charming and alluring; his pearly fangs poking out and dimples on display.

It was enough to make any thoughts, defenses, and protests you had melt away.

You find yourself rolling your eyes and smiling back at him.

“Alright.. what do you want to show me?” you finally ask with a raised brow.

“Jus’.. follow me.. It ain’t something I show to just anyone..” he says as he turns and starts to make his way up the stairs.

As you follow him up the stairs, he walks down a hallway, it’s not very well lit.

You see the shitty discolored floral wallpaper that was definitely put up later in the owners residency from 1790. Behind the wallpaper you see the cracked walls and rotten wood that somehow surpassed the weird time.

Even in the shitty lighting you make out pictures that are hung up on the wall.

They show a family, a big one.

One that probably lived in the house at some point and were the last known occupants before it turned into whatever it was now.

“Was this your family?” You ask him.

He only hums, and you take that as all the confirmation you were gonna get.

You tear your eyes away from the wall and see him standing at the last door of the hallway.

It was especially dark, and for some reason you felt your body start to feel like it wanted to run.

“C’mere, in here.” he says with that same charming grin, it makes you want to trust him even when your body is starting to vibrate with the urge to run.

He goes to open the door, and of course it creaks when it opens, it’s an old ass house.

And of course the inside is dark as shit, there’s no electricity, the house is from the near 1800s.

“After you,” his charming southern accent rings like sweet honey, and you walk right into the room.

He of course follows right after you and shuts the door behind him.

The bit of light that shone from the hallway disappeared.

The sound of the door closing, the consumption of the room in darkness, and the click of the door being locked, cause you to turn around in the now dark to face the direction for which you think he is in.

The darkness doesn’t last, with a snap of his finger candles are set and the room is illuminated in a dim light.

Finally you get a good look at the room.

It’s small, and it smelled putrid.

You saw that the boarded up windows had curtains, but the material wasn’t cloth.

“What is..” you trailed off as the slow realization creeped in.

It was skin.

Human skin.

Your head reeled, you turned and saw that the rest of the room was adorned in furniture that was also made up of patches and pieces of skin stitched together.

Your eyes wide, they searched desperately around the room but were only met with skin.

It covered every surface.

The floor, the walls, the furniture.

It was all human skin.

There were even a few faces stitched into the wall and ceiling, portraits that blended into the wall.

Confused teary eyes wildly looked around the room.

You whipped around to find the scarecrow. He stood right where he had been, leaning on the locked door, the same grin plastered on his face.

This time it did nothing to ease you. Instead it felt sinister, taunting.

Your trembling lips try to say something but your voice dies in your throat.

Finally that southern voice you had some to familiarize yourself with spoke, his tone sickeningly sweet and that yellow hue in his eyes burned like the candles that lit the room, “What ya think? Beautiful, right darlin’?.”

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sleepyfan-blog · 5 months

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Displaced

Author’s Note: Cedric’s debut in Space Marine Husbandry Sentience! First and Latest part of Cedric’s 40k adventures. Next fic

Tagged: @egrets-not-regrets

Warnings: panic attack

Summary: Cedric wakes up on the forest floor of a world he doesn’t recognize and wanders until he finds people.

Cedric blinked rapidly several times as he stared up at the dense forest canopy he found himself in. The young Astartes slowly got up from where he'd apparently been laid out on the ground as confusion warred with unhappiness within his heart. The last thing that the young apothecary remembered was falling asleep in his bunk on The Sigismund to the sounds of his brothers and squad mates sleeping - and their newest squad mate's snores (he had a deviated septum from when he'd broken his nose in training as a neophyte. It hadn't quite healed correctly and it wasn't worth it to correct the minor defect, especially when there was a good chance that Munse was going to get his nose broken in a brawl and Cedric would re-set his nose properly then). He would have been woken up before being ordered into a drop pod…

Which meant that this must be a dream… Or more likely a nightmare of some kind. He looked carefully for his Brothers, straining his ears for any sounds of enemy fire. He knew who he would see crawling towards him on his hands, legs dead weight dragged behind him, looking up with him at hope that he might be able to save him this time. Sometimes he was even able to save the injured brother within the confines of his own mind, only to wake and realize that it was only a bittersweet dream. Other times he watched as each of his squad mates was hunted down and killed by the Tau, before he was captured - spared because he was a medical professional.

Or maybe he would be subjected to the last cries of the… Many civilians he had tried and failed to help - or who were too far gone for what first aid he could spare them on the battlefield, and to grant them the Emperor's Mercy, in order to avoid a lingering death that risked Temptation by the Ruinous powers, or being captured and tormented by xenos until they died. Either way, this was likely to be a miserable dream - unless… He usually wasn't so aware during his dreams, perhaps he could control things in this dream? Unless he had somehow been translocated from the Sigismund to… Wherever the fuck this forest was. It was sunny, and as he breathed in and out deeply, he could catch the faint scent of woodsmoke on the breeze. He couldn't see the smoke, which meant that he was either too far away from the fire to see even the smoke, the fire was too small, or had recently been put out. Or perhaps a combination of all three.

He looked down at himself, frowning a little. Most of the time in his nightmares he was wearing his full armor - but he was currently wearing what he'd gone to sleep in; his black and red tunic, pants and socks. The ground beneath his socked feet was dark and rich. Cedric hesitated for a moment, trying to decide if he wanted to take his socks off or not. It was unlikely that he was going to find anything in this relatively peaceful-seeming forest. He began to jog at a comfortable pace (after having removed his socks) into the wind, the scent of wood smoke becoming more intense as the day wore on.

A handful of hours later, and Cedric found the source of the smoke - a medium sized cooking fire, surrounded by a dozen or so civilian humans. They were laughing and speaking to one another in a language that the Primaris marine did not recognize. From what he could tell, this was a family group of some kind, as many of them shared similar facial features between the different age groups he could see. There were several older humans - grey and white in their hair with age. Several adults of varying ages, and six… No, seven children all under the age of twelve, laughing and playing with one another.

A deep, aching sense of loneliness threatened to drag Cedric down to his knees, and he was utterly unaware of the distressed whine that escaped his chest as he stared at the clearly joyous group. Their carefree, happy faces. The way that the young ones chased each other around - some sort of sphere made of leather being tossed from child to child.

One of the adults closer to where Cedric was standing and watching them looked over in his direction.

The young Astartes, painfully aware of the transhuman dread that often afflicted the mortals who encountered him, hid behind one of the very large trees, hoping that they wouldn't investigate further. In part because he had no way of communicating with them, and because… He wanted to watch the little ones play without being potentially chased off by the adults. Not that they could really stop him from watching as none of them appeared to be an armor and all Astartes were living weapons - and Primaris Marines such as himself were (according to the Mechanicus) even better… But he didn't want them to leave, either.

He had no way to contact his brothers if this wasn't some very strange, semi-lucid dream, and no way to converse with these civilians either - unless they did speak Gothic, and preferred whatever language they were speaking in when interacting with family members.

Cedric waited several minutes before peering around the trunk of the massive tree (the reddish-brown bark was spongy to the touch and had a delightfully earthy scent. It's tree branches were dozens of feet up in the air and had flat green needles) once again. The adult humans had not changed positions, and the children continued to run around the forest clearing, throwing the ball at one another, as half of them chased the others who were in possession of the ball. Eventually the chasers versus the being chased would change when the ball would change hands, and back across the forest clearing they would go.

One of the youngest children mis-aimed their throw, though the strength with which they threw the ball was admirable. It bounced off one of the gigantic trees inches from one of their teammates and ricocheted passed where Cedric was lurking and out of sight of the young ones. The ball bounced off a couple of trees before rolling to a stop in front of Cedric's feet.]

The young apothecary swallowed hard, suspecting that the children would charge into the forest after the ball - whether or not they were allowed to by their adult family members, and he had nowhere to hide in time - hiding behind the tree from the oncoming children would reveal himself to the sitting adults. Maybe… Maybe he could roll the ball back towards where the assembled children and adults were, and they would assume that it had bounced back towards them, while hopefully keeping himself from sight? Another anxious whine left his lips as he stared uncertainly at the ball, starting to reach for it.

Before Cedric could make a decision, four of the children ran to his hiding place. The child who'd thrown the ball not even noticing Cedric's half-crouch as they gleefully dived for the ball, scooping it up in their tiny hands, raising it over their head victoriously.

… The other three children had stopped running and were staring up at him, a mixture of emotions that Cedric was unsure as to whether or not he was identifying correctly on their faces. The oldest - or at least the largest of them - stepped forward and said something to the other three, who scampered back to the group.

Fuck! Now what? Should he run? No, it's not like he was doing anything illegal or sinful… right? He's just… Lost. Maybe one of the baseline humans did speak Gothic? Or at least enough for them to communicate? Another anxious whine left his lips as the baseline human child looked at him directly in the eyes and said… Something.

Cedric hunched his shoulders, trying not to seem threatening as he… Found himself unable to look the human child in the eye. As carefully and clearly as he could manage, he spoke in Gothic "I do not understand you, young one. Do you know this language?"

The child stared at him uncomprehendingly for several seconds before pulling out a small metallic object that reminded Cedric somewhat of a data slate, though much smaller. The child focused on the tiny slate for several seconds before a neutral voice with a Maccragian accent spoke "Hello, I am Amicus De'leth, Brother-Sargeant of the seventh Company of the Ultramarines. One of my humans has called me, asking for help as an interpreter?"

Cedric had no blessed idea who this Brother-sergeant was, but a wave of relief that nearly caused him to cry washed through his body. "I… I am Primaris Brother-Apothecary Cedric of the Black Templars, sir.. I'm… I don't know how I ended up on one of the worlds of the Realm of Ultramar, the last thing I remember was falling asleep on my bunk on The Sigismund."

"… Do you have any of your brothers with you, Cedric?" The Brother-sergeant asked from the square communicator.

"No sir. I woke up alone, without my armor… Or weapons… Or med kit… I don't even have boots on sir…" Cedric responded, another anxious whine leaving him as he started to realize just how woefully underdressed and unprepared he was. The world began to spin unpleasantly beneath him, so he grabbed onto the large tree he'd been spending the better part of twenty minutes hiding behind as he desperately tried to fend off a panic attack.

"Little brother, Cedric! I need you to focus on me, on my voice. I know that you're feeling overwhelmed, but I need you to keep calm, alright? I've asked one of the adult humans in the group you found to bring you to me, alright? There are several Astartes bases in the city I live in… Black Templars are a successor chapter of the Imperial Fists, right?" The Ultramarine asked his voice firm and grounding as Cedric tried to claw his way to some sort of emotional equilibrium.

His head was swimming - and he wasn't sure if it was just because of the confused panic trying to stop his hearts. Something felt off- wrong. He couldn't put his finger on what. But he had to answer the brother-sergeant's question. It would be insubordinate of him if he didn't… Fuck, why couldn't he stop whining wordlessly? It wasn't helping him regain some sense of emotional equilibrium in the slightest, and the human child was looking at him with open concern on their tiny face. "Yes sir, The Black Templars are a successor chapter of the Imperial fists." Cedric doesn't know why that matters.

"Alright, there aren't any Black Templars that I know of nearby, but there are several Imperial Fists, and I figure having an older brother or two around to explain… Everything that we currently understand about what's going on - which isn't life-threatening or dangerous, near as any of us can tell - will help. Forgive me for the assumption if I am wrong, but you sound… Young, Cedric. Am I correct? How long has it been since the rollout of the Primaris Marines? This posting means that getting reliable news is… Difficult." Brother-Sergeant De'leth inquired.

"I… I've been training under my mentor for about… Four years, sir? After the holy resurrection of the Imperial Regent he gathered all of the primaris marines ready for deployment and brought reinforcements to those chapters who knelt before him and swore loyalty to him and to the Imperium once again. Those who refused to kneel were slaughtered by the Ultramarines and Lord Regent Guilliman, sir. The Lord Regent himself spoke to High Marshal Helbriecht. I'm not sure how old I am, sir. The Mechanicum never put much stock into measuring our ages in such a way, sir. Only how effective we were in learning combat and our specialized roles, if we tested into them."

"Father… Father lives. Of course he does. I'm going to ask the young one who's comm device we're using to talk to each other to get their father, so that he can drive you to the base. Cooperate with them." The Ultramarine ordered "The father speaks some Gothic."

"Yes sir." Cedric responded, unable to stop himself from saluting the strange comm, snapping to attention at the stern voice of command, ducking his head a little.

"Good lad. Follow Amira to her father." The Ultramarine brother-sergeant ordered, which Cedric dutifully obeyed.

The vehicle used by Amira's father to get Cedric to the Astartes base reminded him somewhat of one of the ground-tanks used in skirmishes against xenos, but it was much less well-armored, didn't have any weapons on it, and the engine was distressingly noisy. The baseline human had greeted him in heavily accented Gothic and spoke little on the drive, for which Cedric was grateful, as it allowed him time to try and figure out why he felt so strange. His mind was still clouded and his thoughts were somewhat sluggish and hazy. He had managed to more or less calm down, despite how utterly without any of his gear he still was, especially after Amira's father had handed him a small, soft toy that vaguely resembled some of the terrestrial creatures found on Feral and Death worlds. It had two black plastic eyes, soft yellow-brown faux-fur. It had two small rounded ears, and was dressed in a facilimile of ultramarine armor - though the fake armor was slightly less soft to the touch than the faux-fur.

Irrationally, Cedric wished that the armor was the white, black and red of a Black Templar Apothecary, with a red cybernetic eye in it's left socket, and jagged scars across it's lower jaw. Still, the small toy was a surprising source of comfort as the young primaris marine buried his face in its' plush fur. he'd had to nearly fold in half and was laying down in the back of the car in order to fit, his knees against his chest. Cedric stayed curled like that until the vehicle came to a stop and the baseline human called out.

"We are here."

"Thank you, sir." Cedric responded, carefully setting down the toy and using a single finger to carefully open the door of the vehicle with it's handle, not wanting to accidentally break part of the mechanism when the human had been kind to him, more than he had needed to be. He carefully shut the door and gave the other a salute, watching the human drive off.

An Ultramarine - a sergeant from his red helm and markings - was walking alongside an Imperial fist as the two of them made their way over to him.

The Imperial Fist whistled as he took off his helmet, looking Cedric up and down "I've never meet a Primaris marine before. You're a big lad, aren't you? I am Brother-Captain Yonnas Bilnes. I'm in charge of the Imperial Fists - and our successor chapters - in this territory. Let's get you a pair of boots and something to eat, and I'll explain where you are - and as far as we've been able to discover - how any of us appeared here. I'll introduce you to our head apothecary o nce you've settled in. It's always good to have another medic around. How long have you been a battle brother?"

"Err… Six months, I think? Sir." Cedric responded, dutifully following the silent order to follow the two into the large building, keeping a respectful three paces behind the higher ranking astartes.

#space marine husbandry #space marine husbandry sentience #oc: cedric #oc: Amicus #oc: amira #cw: panic attack #my writing #warhammer 40k #oc: Yonnas

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