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strang3lov3 · 1 month

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Bad Habit

“Don’t you ever start smokin’. If I catch ya with one of these in that mouth of yours, I’ll make you regret it,” he said, exhaling smoke. “I will make you fuckin’ regret it.”

After Joel catches you smoking, he gives you something else to put between your lips. (7.2k)

Tags - dbf!joel, neighbor!joel, pervy/sleazy yet comforting Joel, cock from a man who could be your second father, smut, smoking, dubcon elements, blowjobs, masturbation, joel jorks it, oral sex, unprotected piv, creampie, joel makes you smoke until you’re sick to your stomach, vomiting, gratuitous use of the nickname ‘kiddo’ because I am who I am, dubcon, the other stuff Fic help - thank you my dearest @noxturnalpascal for editing <3 and @pinkypromisepascal for giving me your eyeballs and leaving lovely comments, my other main squeezes for brainstorming with me!! @endlessthxxghts @beefrobeefcal A/N - heddo!I sorry for the delay on getting this out. fic posting will continue to be sporadic and weird for a while so thank you for being patient <3 i hope you all have a safe week and I love you very much 🫂💕 definitely didn’t skip class to finish this and watch gilmore girls btw so if you hear that rumor about me it is bullshit it is not true at all

The cool, late-summer air blows gently on your skin, leaving a trail of goosebumps in its wake as you sit next to your open window, headphones on, Fiona Apple’s When The Pawn… playing in your ears. You take a long drag of your cigarette and let it fill and burn your lungs, then blow the smoke outside. The sun is setting, the dim light making everything in your room look like a black and white movie, even your own hand in front of you. You love nights like these.

Eyes gently shut, you’re lost in thought when a tapping on the glass startles you. You gasp when you see Joel, his big hand clutching a large garbage bag. He must have seen you on his way taking the trash out.

Joel’s your neighbor, he’s been your neighbor all your life. He’s your dad’s closest friend as well, and had a heavy hand in raising you. You used to eat at his house for dinner on Sunday nights, a tradition that’s lasted to present day. As a teenager, you’d spend days and nights at his house when you and your dad weren’t getting along, needing some space from each other. Joel was always a safe person for you to go to. His guest room practically became your second bedroom by the time you graduated. Joel taught you card games, and would make you root beer floats while you played round after round of Rummy.

Joel was actually the first person to introduce you to smoking. Unintentionally, of course. You can remember him always smelling warmly of tobacco, smelling it on his hair, skin, and clothes when you’d hug him. When you were younger, he told you once, cigarette in his mouth, “Don’t you ever start smokin’. If I catch ya with one of these in that mouth of yours, I’ll make you regret it,” he said, exhaling smoke, “I will make you fuckin’ regret it.”

“Hey, trouble,” Joel drawls. “You ain’t ‘sposed to be smokin’ that.”

Joel reaches for your cigarettes and pulls it from your mouth, his thumb brushing over your bottom lip. He examines it, chuckling quietly at the feeling of the stickiness of your lipgloss on the rolling paper. He brings it to his mouth, then takes a couple puffs before stubbing the cigarette out on the sole of his shoe, then disposes it in his garbage bag. Your dad doesn’t need to see your old cigarette stubs when he’s mowing the lawn. “Don’t let me catch ya again,” he warns, then presses a warm kiss to your forehead, mustache tickling your skin. “Get some sleep. G’night, kiddo.”

This isn’t the first time Joel’s caught you smoking. The first time he did, you were probably around eighteen years old. You remember that it was around Thanksgiving, the leaves were still falling off the trees and the air was chilly. It was an evening when Joel and your dad were hanging out in the kitchen, watching a Bears and Cowboys game on TV. Rooting for the opposite teams, your dad and Joel were barking at each other, getting loud and rowdy. There was no escape from the noise, so you snuck out of your bedroom window and just started walking. Joel left his garage door open, so you decided to hang out there. You admired the posters on the wall, Nirvana and The Rolling Stones. Different liquor brand artwork, picked up from when he used to work as a bartender. The garage never changed, always had that faint smell of cigarettes permeating the air.

Cigarettes. They were on the workbench in the back of the garage, a pack of Marlboro reds just sitting there, waiting to be smoked. To the left of the pack, a little white Bic lighter. You weren’t sure what came over you at that moment but you palmed both items, then peeked over your shoulder to make sure you really were as alone as you thought you were. You held your breath and focused hard, and found that you were able to hear the faint sounds of Joel and your dad yelling. You were in the clear.

You opened the worn pack of Marlboros and pulled out one of the cigarettes, the first time you ever held one in your hand. You rolled it between your fingers, inspecting it, before you brought it to your nose to smell the tobacco. With trembling hands you placed the cigarette between your lips, and as you fumbled with the little white lighter, Joel’s warning played over and over again in your mind. If I catch ya with one of these in that mouth of yours, I’ll make you regret it.

But Joel wasn’t there. And what Joel didn’t know wouldn’t kill him. So you lit the cigarette and inhaled, then coughed a bit at the sensation. It was harsh, made your throat feel itchy and scratchy. You didn’t like the way the smoke burned your lungs and you couldn’t wrap your head around how Joel - anyone, for that matter - could become addicted to something as unpleasant as this. You took another puff for the sake of experimenting and you were met with the same experience. Unpleasant. But by the third or fourth drag, you felt the beginning of that headrush everyone talks about. A lightheaded, hazy sort of feeling. Now that…that wasn’t quite so unpleasant. You could see exactly how cigarettes could relieve stress. Taking another puff, you thought maybe you’d steal one or two more from the pack, save them for the end of the week. Smoke them when you’re home from school, before your dad or Joel could see you. And then you’ll shower real quick, wash your hair and brush your teeth and toss your clothes in the washer and -

“The hell do you think you’re doin’?”

Shit.

You pulled the cigarette out of your mouth and stubbed it out in a nearby ashtray on Joel’s workbench. “N-nothing.”

“Bullshit, you’re smokin’,” Joel bit, approaching you through the open garage door. “So help me god, kid...” He snatched his pack of cigarettes from you, along with his lighter. “Stealin’, too. These are my smokes. What the fuck’s the matter with you?”

“Joel, I’m sorry. I-”

“You ain’t sorry, yet. Get in the truck.”

“Joel-”

“Get. In. The fucking. Truck.” he seethed. He wore such a threatening scowl, and his face and neck were red, veins bulging in his skin as his anger grew.

You scurried into his truck that sat on the driveway and Joel followed suit, slamming the door shut before turning the key into the ignition. Even the truck sounded angry as it roared to life. Joel shifted into reverse and drove you down the street, to the nearest gas station. “Stay there,” he ordered.

You awaited his return anxiously, picking at your nails. Joel returned with a new pack of Marlboro reds and drove back to his home. “Garage,” he said.

“But my dad-”

“Garage.”

If I catch ya with one of these in that mouth of yours, I’ll make you regret it.

Joel made good on his promise. He sat you down in front of the workbench, right where you were before. He lowered the garage door until it rested just about a foot off the ground so that the smoke had somewhere to go. Then he sat in front of you, hit the pack of cigarettes on his palm five times before unwrapping the cellophane and opening the pack. Joel took one cigarette out and flipped it upside down in the pack.

“What are you doing?”

“Christ almighty,” he sighs. “You’re so fuckin’ young. You pack the cigarettes first, so they burn smoother an’ longer.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah, oh. And then you flip your lucky - just the one cigarette.” Joel pulled the upside down cigarette from the pack to demonstrate. “Old World War II tradition, if I’m not mistaken. ‘Sposed to be a good luck charm.”

Joel pulled one cigarette from the pack for you, placed it between your lips and lit it. He could see the confused expression on your face as you inhale and exhale.

“Just you wait,” he said. “I promise you, this is a punishment.”

“How?”

“You’re gonna sit here with me and smoke every last cigarette in that pack. I don’t care f’your lungs start to burn and you feel sick to your stomach, you’re smokin’ ‘em all,” he said. “Now get to it.”

Joel watched you as you smoked cigarette after cigarette. He was right, your lungs did start to ache and hurt and your stomach had begun to feel queasy from all the nicotine. After about the sixth or seventh, you had figured out that you could make things a little easier on yourself by not breathing in the smoke all the way, just let it hang out in your mouth instead.

“I started smokin’ when I was around your age,” Joel said as he lit another cigarette for you. “Couldn’t ‘a been older than seventeen.”

You nodded.

“Why’d you pick this habit up, huh? You know these things aren’t any good for ya.”

“I don’t know,” you sighed, ashing onto the garage floor. “I just…I don’t know. Stressed out.”

“‘Bout what?”

You shrugged. “Just everything, I guess.”

Joel nodded. “I get it,” he said. “But there’s other ways of relievin’ stress that ain’t smokin’.”

“Like what?”

“Well,” Joel began, looking down at his lap. “The cigarettes are causin’ that brain of yours to release those feel-good chemicals. You gotta find something else that feels good, hon. M’sure you’ll figure out what that means.”

You felt your cheeks heat up at the implication of how to get your endorphins flowing, but you knew he wasn’t wrong. You nodded shyly.

“Now keep smokin’.”

“Joel,” you whined, coughing dryly.

“Keep it up,” he threatened, “I’ll make it two packs.”

What felt like hours passed until you finally made it to the last two cigarettes in the pack, and you felt ill. “C’mon,” Joel said. “Last two. I’m smokin’ the last one with ya, and then we’re done, both of us,” he promised. He lit his cigarette first, then yours, and then took a drag. You did too, though it was agony.

“I don’t feel so good, Joel,” you told him, clutching your stomach and squirming in your seat as the nauseating feeling in your stomach worsened.

“Good,” Joel retorted. “Means the punishment’s workin’. You ain’t ‘sposed to feel good.” You looked at Joel with glassy eyes, your skin a little damp with sweat. “You okay, sweetheart?”

You shook your head. Your stomach churned harder, you felt your mouth salivate as your heart began to beat faster. There was no more staving off the feeling - you dropped your cigarette and sprinted inside, making a beeline for Joel’s bathroom. Joel followed close behind and rubbed your back as you emptied your guts into his toilet until you were dry-heaving. “Oh, I know, I know,” he whispered, patting you gently. “You’re gonna be okay.”

“Fuck,” you groaned, lifting your head up and leaning back to rest against Joel. He flushed the toilet for you, then helped you up so you could rinse your mouth out in the sink.

“It don’t feel too good, huh?” he murmured, stroking the side of your face. “You’re gonna be a good girl for me? Gonna quit smokin’?”

“Yeah,” you said. “Yeah, I’m done.”

“Attagirl,” Joel smiled.

Joel offered you some Pepto-Bismol and guided you to his couch, where he held you and talked. After about forty-five minutes, he sent you home. Your dad was none the wiser, probably passed out on his own couch after the game. Joel kept your secret under the condition that you’d quit smoking for good, and he quit too. In all honesty, he was shaken that it was his cigarettes you’d stolen, and disturbed by the fact he was the one to introduce you to tobacco - your dad didn’t smoke, never has. He had unknowingly introduced you to it, of course, but Joel still held himself responsible. Joel meant it, smoking that last cigarette with you. He decided that night he was quitting cold turkey. He was done.

You should have been done too. You shouldn’t still be doing this. And that pack of Marlboros in your purse shouldn’t be there, you should have thrown it out the other night when Joel caught you smoking out of your window. But you’re in Joel’s backyard, cigarette between your fingers as you listen to the sounds of the family barbecue taking place in your own backyard.

It was just too much. Your family increases in size every year, be it a new partner, new family friends, new children. And your family is loud. Every conversation happens using raised voices, even if no one is speaking in anger. Boisterous laughter, dogs barking, shrill squeals of excited kids running through sprinklers. There’s no escape from it at all, unless you’re to escape it entirely - so that’s exactly what you did, and why you’re at Joel’s house instead of your own. You needed a momentary reprieve. Separated by nothing more than a thin fence and yet it makes all the difference. Joel’s backyard is quiet, serene. He keeps his fence lined with flowers that he had you pick out at the nursery, he has a nice deck with a comfortable patio furniture set. You rock back and forth in one of the chairs as you smoke, promising yourself after this cigarette - or maybe just one more - you’ll go back to the party.

The glass patio door slides open, causing you to jump and scramble to put your cigarette out, but you’re too late. Joel’s always a step ahead, somehow. “What are you doin’, kiddo?” he asks in a low, accusatory tone.

“Nothing,” you lie.

“You’re smokin’.”

You hang your head. Joel sits in the chair next to you and holds out his hand, palm facing up. You sigh and place your pack in his hand. “I’m sorry.”

“Uh-huh,” Joel says. “Why’re you still doin’ this? You’re poisoning yourself, sweetheart. It’s breakin’ my heart.”

You shrug. “I don’t know,” you admit. You open your mouth to speak again, then exhale when you give up.

“I want you to try,” he urges. “Jus’ talk to me, hon, you’re not in trouble right now. Tell me what’s goin’ on.”

“Okay,” you nod. You take a deep breath, then begin to explain. “I want to quit, Joel. I do. I tried gum and patches…”

“Go on. I’m listenin’.”

“They worked for a while, I guess. I was even able to stop entirely, get past the nicotine withdrawals. They weren’t even so bad.”

“Right,” Joel nods, “But what?”

“It’s stupid.”

“S’not stupid. Keep tellin’ me.”

“I missed the ritual of it all, if that makes sense,” you confess. “ Lighting it, holding it. Watching the smoke. Feeling it in my mouth.” You find the courage to look at Joel, and he’s not making fun of you for your admission. He’s nodding along, listening intently. “It’s sort of soothing.”

“I get it,” he says. “I do.”

“You do?”

“Mhm. S’called an oral fixation, sweetheart. Means it calms ya down to have somethin’ in that mouth of yours. You heard of it?” You shake your head no, and Joel explains further. “Same reason some people bite their nails or chew on straws. Jus’ somethin’ people do.”

“Oh.”

“Mhm. You should try keepin’ your mouth busy with somethin’ else.”

Your mouth goes dry, and you feel yourself becoming flustered. “Joel…” you whisper.

“Quite the imagination you got there, huh?” he smirks, nudging your knee with his own. “M’not talkin’ about that, dirty bird. Do you have a sweet tooth at all?”

“Um,” you hum, “I guess.”

“I got a sweet tooth myself,” Joel replies. “C’mon inside.”

Joel leads you inside, and he doesn’t bother to sneakily throw your cigarettes in the trash. He makes sure you can see it, hear the thud of the pack hitting the bottom of the can. You stand in his kitchen as he opens his freezer and rifles through some items. “Pick a flavor,” he says, “I got green apple, grape, cherry, and lemon.”

“Cherry,” you answer.

Joel pulls out a cherry-flavored popsicle and unwraps it for you. “Open,” he says, then places the cold, sweet and tart ice on your tongue. Your hand brushes his when you grab the wooden stick, watching him. You can see the way his pupils dilate when you suck on it, how his chest rises when he sucks in a deep breath. Joel feels his cock begin to thicken in his jeans and abruptly clears his throat. “So, uh, anyway,” he stutters, “It helps to suck on somethin’ sweet. I’ll keep my freezer stocked with these for ya, you just let me know if you have any flavor requests. You help yourself anytime you’re havin’ one of your cravings.”

You pull the popsicle from your mouth, your lips stained red. “Thanks, Joel,” you smile.

“You’d best get back to that party, hon. I’ll catch up with ya in a minute, nature’s callin’,” he teases, quickly excusing himself into his nearby bathroom. He hears you giggle and whine, “Gross,” as you leave his house. Joel watches you through the frosted bathroom window as you sneak back into the party. He’s palming his growing bulge, pressing his hand firmly against it until he can’t see you anymore, then quickly unzips his jeans and pulls out his cock, leaking and hard. He spits into his hand and strokes himself, his rough palm sliding up and down his thick, veiny cock, squeezing hard. He pumps himself and groans when he comes, spilling into his palm and on his fingers. Joel washes his hands, tucks himself back into his jeans and makes his way back to the barbecue.

You’re in Joel’s truck. It was a long day of work, the phone was ringing nonstop and you could hardly catch a break, though Joel gave you extra time on your lunch to make up for the crappy day. He has you helping him out with his contracting job, having you answer phones and schedule estimates and whatnot. He likes having you around, giving you a little money to burn as you expand your resume.

At six, Joel tossed you his truck keys and told you he’d be right out there, but that he’s gotta finish up with a client real quick first. “Go ‘head and start up the truck for me, hon, I’ll be out there soon. Shouldn’t be more than ten minutes,” he promised. But that was an hour ago, and it’s beginning to get dark. You’re itching to leave. On days you work with Joel, he’s your ride. Oftentimes it’s a blessing as he’s the one paying for gas and driving through traffic, but other times, it’s a curse. You’re on Joel’s time, itching to leave and he’s…doing whatever he’s doing.

You’re getting that feeling again. You’re not sure why, but it’s been happening more and more lately. You’ve been absolutely craving a cigarette recently. Just one, maybe two. You shouldn’t have done it, but you bought a pack at the gas station. Promised yourself you’d save it for special occasions but after this pack, you’d be done. For good.

You’re just dying for one right now. Turning the pack over in your hand, you watch, anticipating seeing Joel leaving the building. But it never happens. Fuck it. You take a cigarette out of your pack and place it between your lips, and just before you light it, you stop. You look around in his truck, see if he’s got a straw from a fast food restaurant in his glove box that you could chew on, maybe a toothpick. At least you tried. It certainly doesn’t help that it smells like cigarette smoke in here anyway, what with Tommy always smoking when he drives with Joel. You resign yourself to lighting the cigarette, inhaling that smoke you missed so much. That familiar burn doesn’t quite hurt the same way it used to and in fact, it’s a welcome pain now. You love that tingly, heady feeling of the nicotine entering your bloodstream. You exhale the smoke out of the window of the truck and close your eyes.

You think about lots of things, what you’re gonna eat for dinner when you get home, what movie you’re gonna watch. What flavor popsicle you’ll steal from Joel’s freezer. You think about which vibrator you’re gonna use between your thighs, which ones are charged and which aren’t.

You’re not being subtle. Shamelessly blowing smoke out of the window, Joel can see you. And in fact, he’s been watching you. He’s fuming as he walks toward his truck and opens his door, startling you and causing you to drop the lit cigarette on your lap. “You are un-fuckin’-believable,” he seethes as he leans over you to pick it up off of your thighs and tosses it out of the window. “In my truck? Are you fuckin’ serious?”

“Joel, I’m sorry–”

“Shut up,” he interrupts. “You pissed me off. I don’t wanna hear it.”

You shrink into your seat and stare at your lap, anxiously circling your thumbs around each other as Joel breathes deeply. He leans back in the driver’s seat and pinches the bridge of his nose, groaning angrily.

“Joel–”

“Don’t.”

In Joel’s head, he counts backwards from ten, attempting to let go of some of his rage. He looks at you, your eyes are big and pleading, those plump lips of yours are pouting, just begging, aching for something to fit snugly between them. “What am I gonna do with you, kiddo,” he whispers, reaching for your face and cupping your cheek. Fuck, that goddamn soft spot he has for you. “All sorts ‘a trouble you could go an’ get yourself into and you pick the one that’s makin’ you sick.”

You nod, feeling guilty for putting Joel through this stress. You know he’s right. You’re gonna drive him to pick up the addiction again himself.

He rubs his calloused thumb back and forth over your cheekbone, looking at you with those big, brown eyes of his. They’re sparkling under the diminishing daylight, looking darker than they usually do. He’s so handsome. He’s always been so handsome.

“Maybe you need to get into a different kinda trouble,” Joel murmurs.

You pause. “Like what?”

“You know what kinda trouble,” he answers softly, assertively. You look down at his lap and notice that with his free hand, he’s begun palming his crotch, cock hardening in his jeans. “Somethin’ else to satisfy that fuckin’ fixation of yours.”

Joel unzips his jeans and pulls his cock out, half hard and growing. “Gimme your hand,” he instructs. He doesn’t wait for you to comply, and takes the pack of Marlboros you had forgotten you were holding out of your hand. He takes your hand and first spits in it, then wraps it around his cock, his fingers wrapped around your wrist as he helps you stroke him. His cock grows to full length in your hand, so thick and hard and meaty. “On your knees, now,” he says. “C’mon. You know what you’re doin’.”

You sink to your knees and Joel slides to the center of the seat so you’re as close to him as can be. He spreads his legs apart and you slot yourself snugly between them, a hand on each one of his thick thighs. It feels surreal, being in this position. Joel senses your nervousness, and you look so vulnerable on your knees for him. Poor thing.

He leans forward a little to tangle his fingers in your hair and then pulls you down, ushering you toward his hard cock. “Open up f’me,” he says. You part your lips and he presses the warm, blunt head against them. You open your jaw wider and he pushes you down on his cock, filling your mouth entirely. “Nice an’ wide. That’s it.”

Joel keeps pushing you down, past the point of comfortability and you choke and sputter on his cock when he hits the back of your throat. “Just relax a minute,” Joel says. “An’ breathe through your nose, kiddo. You’ll get used to it.”

With his hand tangled in your hair, it’s less of you moving of your own volition and more of Joel guiding you, making you take him down your throat the way he wants you to. You like that. As your head dips lower and bobs back up again, you swirl and drag your tongue along his shaft, tasting that heady, musky flavor of his cock, the salty precum when your tongue slides over his small slit.“Yeah, you know what to do,” Joel groans. “Ohh, that’s it. Good girl.”

You feel his cock pulsing under your tongue, a welcome experience. There’s something so intimate and satisfying about learning all of the exact, fine details of what Joel’s pleasure looks and tastes like. He rolls his hips to meet you where you’re at, taking control of his pleasure, doing all the work himself. Sweat is beginning to gather on his body, dripping down his temples and gathering on his soft tummy. He can’t help but feel a little like he’s taking advantage of you right now, but he doesn’t feel bad enough to stop. In fact, it turns him on more. Joel thinks that maybe it even turns you on, too, what with the way you let out quiet, sweet little moans. “You like it, don’t you, baby?”

“Mm-hmm,” you hum.

“I know you do,” Joel coos. “Feels good, don’t it?”

You nod your head, moaning as you slide your tongue along his length, swirling it around his head before dipping lower again, your nose buried in those thick curls spattered around the base of his cock, dampened by your saliva. “What a mess you’re makin’,” Joel murmurs, enjoying those wet, sloppy noises you’re making. “Such a good girl f’me, you’re takin’ it so good.”

You reach for his balls, cupping them and rolling them gently in your palm, eliciting a sharp gasp from Joel. “Oh, fuck,” he groans, “That’s it, kiddo, keep doin’ it jus’ like that. Goddamn.”

Joel basks in the feeling of being inside your hot, wet mouth, feeling you suck and slobber on him, the dizzying feeling of your tongue teasing his shaft and his head. It’s all so soft, so slick and warm. He can feel it in his stomach, his balls begin to tighten as he approaches release. Joel takes your head in both of his big, masculine hands and fucks your mouth hard. “Oh, Christ,” he hisses. “Fuck, ohhh, fuck.”

With just a few more deep, frenetic thrusts, Joel comes in your mouth without a warning, just a guttural, deep groan. He paints your tongue with his hot, salty spend, ropes and ropes of it spurting from his thick, twitching cock. He fucks your mouth through his orgasm, his thrusts turning slower, more shallow in time as you take every last bit of his come, swallowing it all.

“Up,” he tells you, his voice raspy. “C’mere.”

You sit next to Joel as he comes down from his high, his deep breathing beginning to regulate. Joel looks at you, wipes a bit of his come from your bottom lip with his thumb and pushes it inside your mouth, where you suck the digit and lick the spend. “S’all you needed, huh? My cock in your mouth?” Your face is hot and a little damp with sweat, your lips all swollen as you nod, a little sheepish. “No need to be bashful, sweetheart. S’okay. F’it works, it works.”

Joel adjusts his jeans and turns up the air conditioner, then scoots back over into the driver’s seat. He pulls you close to his body, tucking you into his side as he shifts the truck into reverse, then drives out of the parking lot. “When that fixation of yours starts actin’ up again or you’re gettin’ nicotine cravings, you to come to me. Will you do that for me, sweetheart?”

You nod. “I will.”

“Good girl,” he says. “I’ll get ya taken care of.”

Your craving for a cigarette hits as early as the following night. To test you, Joel had surreptitiously dropped your last pack of cigarettes in your purse last night in his truck. You only noticed a little bit ago, when you were digging through your belongings to find your lip gloss. You could smoke them if you wanted to. You do want to. You could be sneakier about it, go for a walk and smoke somewhere Joel won’t see you.

You slip on a pair of sneakers and throw a light sweatshirt over your shoulders, then walk out of your room and past your father in the living room. “Where you off to, sweetie?” he asks.

“Just for a walk,” you answer quickly. To be honest, you weren’t expecting him to be awake. It’s late and the TV’s on, which usually means he’s sleeping. He can’t stay awake through any movie or TV show.

“Mm,” he hums. “Be safe, honey. Come back soon, I don’t like you out too late all by yourself.”

You promise your dad you’ll be back soon, then leave out of your front door and make a left. As you walk past your yard, then Joel’s, you realize he’s in his garage, tinkering with something at his workbench. He doesn’t see you, and you could walk on by without him noticing, smoke your secret cigarette and he’d be none the wiser.

But you’d feel guilty. You feel guilty for even thinking about it. You shift your weight from one foot to the other, contemplating. Maybe Joel’s right, that you need to get yourself into a different kind of trouble. You used to feel thrilled when you’d drink underage or smoke when you shouldn’t have been. But Joel’s cock down your throat, on your knees for your dad’s best friend, a man who’s like a second father to you…Well, nothing compared to that thrill.

You walk up Joel’s driveway and quietly into his garage, he’s got an old CD player on and he’s listening to Nirvana. “Joel?”

Joel turns to look over his shoulder and smiles at you. “Hey, you.”

“I…” you struggle to get the words out. Joel nods in understanding, he knows exactly why you’re here. You’re such a good girl for him. Always been a good girl.

Joel pauses his CD player and takes your hand, then leads you inside his house. When you’ve finished sucking his cock, he tells you he’s glad you came to him and that he’s very proud of you. On your way home, you throw that pack of Marlboros away. And for once, you really are done.

You suck his cock the next week at work, when you’re watching Tommy take a smoke break through the window next to your desk. You’re on the phone with one of Joel’s clients who’s been giving both you and him trouble all week, and you’re reaching the end of your rope with this guy. He’s old, impatient, and speaks so rudely to you. After you’ve argued with him in circles for about twenty minutes, he interrupts you and demands that you put him on the phone with a man. You’re livid. “Absolutely, sir. Let me place you on a brief hold and I’ll transfer you to my boss,” you tell him as sweetly. You press a few buttons on the phone and slam it on your desk, then march into Joel’s office, slamming the door and then locking it.

Joel’s eyes light up. He rolls back in his chair and reaches behind himself to twist the blinds shut, then unzips his pants as you drop to your knees .

The routine happens day to day, week to week. Joel notices that there are days when you suck his cock aggressively, like you’re angry or you’re restless and antsy. But after a few weeks, they don’t quite feel that way anymore. You focus on his pleasure, and not your need to curb an addiction. It felt satisfying to have Joel’s cock down your throat before, and that certainly helped to satisfy your particular fixation. You’re more satisfied now at the notion of bringing Joel to absolute ecstasy, memorizing the way his breathing changes when you trace your tongue along his shaft and around his head. You’ve begun kissing up and down his length, gently sucking his balls and kissing his thighs, his tummy. You used to grip his thighs tight, digging your fingers into his flesh, but you hold his hand, now. It’s passion, adoration, maybe even love. You deserve the same pleasure, Joel thinks.

Your dad’s out of town for a few days, he’s staying overnight in some city a few hours away for some work conference. He had stocked the fridge with different snacks and had tasked Joel with making sure you have something hot and filling each night for dinner, so you’ve spent the past few evenings at Joel’s house.

You’re on Joel’s couch, watching old reruns of Will and Grace on TV as Joel does the dishes. When he’s done, he joins you on the couch. When the show pauses for a commercial break, Joel mutes the TV. “Wanna talk to you ‘bout somethin’,” he says. You turn your attention to him. Joel’s hand drops to your thigh, and he scratches your skin lazily. His touch sends a jolt of excitement to your core. “You’ve been real good f’me, you know that, don’t you?”

“What do you mean?”

“You know what I mean. Been a long time since your last cigarette, yeah?”

“Yeah,” you reply, “Couple months, I think.”

“S’what I thought,” he whispers. “An’ it’s why I wanna do somethin’ for ya.”

“Do what?”

“Well,” Joel begins, inhaling deeply. His hand goes higher with every pass, fingers closer and closer to the apex of your thighs. You’re starting to feel hot. “I think it’s awful unfair ‘a me to be leavin’ you high and dry the way I’ve been. Not very gentlemanly, huh?”

Joel’s fingers are wiggling beneath the fabric of your shorts, gently skating along your thin cotton panties. “Joel,” you whine.

“I’m gonna make it even,” he murmurs softly into your ear, his hot breath tickling your neck. Joel drags the tip of his sharp, aquiline nose over the curve of your ear, then gently bites your earlobe, causing you to squirm. He smirks at that. “Gonna taste you.”

Joel hovers over you, laying your body across his soft couch. He kneels as he hooks his fingers around your shorts and panties and pulls them down and off your legs, tossing them on the floor.

His warm, big hands slide up your legs until he reaches your knees, “Spread your legs for me, sweetheart,” he says, and you part your thighs for him. He spreads them wider, pushing your knees toward your chest. Your nerves are on fire as he slides your shirt up your chest, exposing your bare body to him. “C’mere,” he mumbles, dipping his head low to kiss all over your torso, up your belly until he reaches the soft flesh of your breasts, nipping at the skin there before he sucks a nipple into his mouth.

“Joel,” you gasp, your hands reaching for his head, fingers tangling in his thick, graying curls. He smirks against you as he kisses his way across to your other breast, repeating the same actions and kissing, licking down your stomach until he’s hovering over your pussy. Under the soft, warm light in the room, he admires your body. Your chest is rising and falling with shaky, nervous breaths. Your legs spread wide gives Joel the perfect view of your pussy, curls framing the shape of your cunt. Skin darkened and glistening wet, pearly ribbons of arousal delicately decorating your slick folds. He can’t wait any longer, he needs to taste you now.

Joel quickly pulls his shirt off and unbuckles his belt, then kicks his jeans off where they join the rest of the discarded clothes on the floor. He settles on his stomach and pulls your body close to his face, his hot breath fanning over your damp, aching pussy. To tease you, he kisses his way toward your center, inching closer and closer to where you need him most yet not giving all the way in. “Please, Joel,” you whine.

“Ohh, I know,” he rasps. He kisses the other thigh, then uses his thumbs to spread your soft folds apart for easier access and licks one long, fat stripe up your pussy. “Oh my god, yes,” you gasp. Joel chuckles at your excitement. He traces up and down with his tongue, his nose buried in the hair that covers your mound. You rock your hips into his face and he holds you tight, limiting your movement so that he holds all control. He’s feeling generous, and you’re going to take all that he gives you.

“Fuck, right there,” you whimper when he licks your clit in circles. His tongue dips lower, circling your tight, wet hole before dipping inside to taste your sweet arousal. Joel hums in pleasure, he loves everything about this - the way you writhe and moan, how your dripping pussy feels against his face. He dips his tongue and swirls it inside of you before replacing it with two of his calloused, weathered fingers, rhythmically curling them inside you so that he’s hitting your g-spot.

You’re moaning, babbling his name along with some other dirty words as Joel licks you and pumps his fingers, soaking him so intensely he thinks he could drown. He’d be happy to. There’s nothing he loves more than eating you out right now, passionately lapping your cunt like you’re the first meal he’s had in days. Your moans are becoming quicker, more frantic as you reach for his free hand and suck and bite his fingertips - always needing something in your mouth. He knows you’re close. Joel focuses on bringing you to the edge and sending you over, unwaveringly fucking you with his fingers and his tongue as your thighs are trembling and twitching, then squeezing the sides of his head as you come hard for him. “Joel,” you cry loudly.

“Yeah, s’it. Give it to me, kiddo. That’s it,” he praises, “Good girl. Good fuckin’ girl.”

Joel works you through your orgasm until the feeling subsides, and then pulls away from you. As you steady your breathing, you close your legs gingerly, hips sore from the position Joel held you in. Joel holds your knee, preventing you from moving any further. “Where do you think you’re goin’?”

“You made it even,” you breathe, reaching for his hand and placing yours on top.

“Nuh-uh, sweetheart. We ain’t square yet,” Joel spreads your legs again, then reaches for his cock. It’s rock-hard, the tip is blushed and swollen as he pumps it with his fist. “You gotta come on my tongue a couple more times than that before we’re even. And-” he grunts, adjusting his position before lowering himself over your body. He wraps your legs around his waist and notches his tip inside of you, “M’only a man. I’m gettin’ mine tonight too.”

With that, he begins to push himself inside you. That slow, deep slide inside your cunt has him groaning in pleasure, Christ, you’re fucking tight. And so warm, soft, and wet. You squeal a bit as you adjust to the feeling of his cock inside of you, his cock splitting you open. “Shhh…” Joel quiets your moans. “Give it a minute, kiddo, you’ll get used to it.”

You watch Joel as he slowly pulls out of you about halfway, then inches his way back inside you incrementally, little by little until your face relaxes and you let out that first sigh of pleasure. “Oh, there it is,” Joel coos. “Right there, huh?”

You nod, then wrap your arms around Joel's broad shoulders as he sets a steady pace. It’s slow, but not quite gentle at first, before it builds to something faster and harder. He rolls his hips at the perfect angle to have you squirming and writhing in pleasure, the head of his cock kissing that sweet spot inside of you over and over. You bury your face into him, biting softly where his neck and shoulders meet. His skin is so soft, slightly salty under your tongue.

“Fuck, good girl,” he praises, kissing the side of your head where your hair is slightly damp with sweat. With each of his thrusts, you feel every inch of him. The scruff on his face brushing against you, his weight on your body, his skin on your skin, his pubic bone grinding against you. He fucks you passionately, sometimes quickening his thrusting, sometimes slowing it down, fucking you with longer, slower strokes. You bask in the sensation, entirely consumed in it all, in Joel. “You’re doin’ so good.”

You rock your hips to match each one of his thrusts, needing more friction against your clit. “M-more, Joel,” you beg. “I wanna come. Please, Joel, make me come again.”

Still fucking you, Joel spits onto his fingertips and wriggles his hand between your body. He searches for your swollen, sensitive bud and then paints steady circles into it, using the motion of his thrusting to help bring you to the edge once more. “Right there,” you tell him. “Don’t stop, please.”

“I know, I gotcha,” he says. “Go ‘head and come for me, baby. Come all over my cock.”

You’re right there, right fucking there as he rounds your clit again and again with his fingers. Your reaction is more intense than before; your moans are louder now, pleading, more urgent. Your brows are knit together, mouth wide open when you go quiet - you’re gonna come, and it’s gonna be long and fiery and intense.

Pure, unadulterated pleasure is all you feel when you finally reach your climax, moans and whimpers falling from your lips like honey until you’re crying Joel’s name, begging him as he fucks you through it. Begging for what, you don’t know. “Joel, Joel, Joel.”

Your orgasm propels Joel’s own, and he’s growling into your ear as he spills into you, milking himself entirely. His come feels so warm inside you, so satisfying. “Oh, fuck me. Jesus, hon,” he groans. “Ohhh, god.”

His thrusts slow, slow, then stop. He whimpers a little when he pulls out of you, then sits back on the couch. His head resting against the back of it, he turns to you. His eyes travel down your body, where some of his spend drips from your pussy. He pushes it back inside you, finger buried all the way to the knuckle, then pulls you into his side.

“You’re gonna kill me,” he says, his voice low and gravelly.

You look up at him, “Why?”

Joel smirks. “ Could use a cigarette,” he answers. “Hits the spot right after sex.”

“Fuck off,” you giggle. “You said we’re done.”

“We are done,” he affirms. “But our deal’s still in place. Which means…” Joel gently pushes you onto your stomach, then pulls you up by your hips. “We’re goin’ for another round.”

If you enjoyed, please reblog/send an ask with some nice comments! Your words keep me motivated to write.

#joel miller x reader #joel miller x reader smut #joel miller smut #joel miller x you #pedro pascal #joel miller #the last of us #joel miller fic #joel miller tlou #dbf!joel smut #dbf!joel x reader #dbf! joel miller

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fuckyeahdindjarin · 6 months

Text

V ║Raw Edge

Joel Miller x F!Reader

{ Part IV: Notch | Behind the Seams: Part V | Series Masterlist | Main Masterlist }

Rating: E, a proper E!

Summary: One lazy afternoon, Joel tests your patience.

Warnings: Sexual tension, some language, gratuitous descriptions of the male body, flirting, fingering, explicit grinding, shy!reader, reader has a nickname related to her job, soft!domestic!Joel, no use of Y/N

Word count: 2k

Notes: It's been a long and winding road y'all, but I'm finally back with an update on the main series. It is a short one, more of an interlude, but it will get us where we need to go for the next chapter. Thank you for your patience, I don't take you guys' understanding and love for granted for even a second. Releasing this during the Seams sleepover, more drabbles coming your way for the remaining month of March!

Raw edge - the raw, raveling, and unfinished, cut edge of the fabric.

It’s fitting that Joel is a patient man. He’s built for it, after all.

Those broad shoulders, the sturdy thighs, his sure hands - he’s steadfast as the mountains that loom over Jackson.

As the sun shifts over the ridges and valleys of the sierra through the seasons, bringing shadows into light, so does Jackson on Joel, and you learn that he’s many kinds of patient.

On lookout duty, even in the depths of winter, he becomes one with the stillness of the night, patiently watching over the safety of the town in the loneliest hours.

When townsfolk stop him on the high street for neighbourly chit chat, he obliges with polite patience, never rushing, but careful not to encourage conversation that is longer than necessary.

With Ellie, when she prattles on with a long-winded story from school, he listens with amused patience, letting her run her half-full mouth over dinner with half-hearted admonishment.

And with you - he is agonisingly patient with you, and yet, never in a way that leaves any doubt of his want for you.

You cannot be more grateful.

And in turn, you’re patient with him. As the green of summer softens with the tail end of the season, you pick up bits and pieces. You hear whispers of names. Tess. Bill. You glimpse ghosts of his past. Sarah. Frank.

You don’t expect him to, but you have the audacity to hope, that one day, if he finds it in him to let you in, you have shoulders to spare.

When the heat fades and the brisk autumnal chill starts to linger in the morning mist, you start to find that you like it when he’s not patient.

Not necessarily for the lack of patience thereof, but the fact that it’s worn thin by something else.

The way heat bleeds into his eyes when Lucy holds you up after your shift ends, fingers twitching, as if the caveman in him wants to grab you and drag you home, where you have planned on dinner - and more.

When you’re two bodies tangled in your sheets, breath short as he kisses his way down your neck and nips the underside of your breasts, bra cups pushed up only halfway because you’re still too shy to take it off completely. You feel him shudder, nails digging into your skin, nostrils flaring like he’s holding back from ripping the scant fabric off of you.

And late one evening, when you ask him for it, in heated whispers and your lower lip caught in your teeth, he oh so patiently works his fingers inside your wet heat -

One, then two;

Slow, then fast;

Tender, then frantic -

Until he feels you clench tight around the crook of his fingers for the first time, watch you arch clean off the bed, he bares his teeth and lets out a primal growl at the cry of his name on your swollen lips.

You find the thrill in getting under Joel Miller’s skin.

As the fall deepens, and trees start to shed in golden surrender, you’re caught off guard when he turns the table on you.

You don’t see it coming, your desperation, that lazy afternoon. It’s just another Saturday when Ellie is on her shift at the Outfitter with Lucy, and Joel is spending those free hours with you.

You’re not sure what got him into the mood, but the man is relentlessly teasing that afternoon, almost bratty in the way he toys with you. His hands go everywhere while you’re cooking, squeezing the swell of your ass then going north to cup your breasts, and stopping off everywhere in between.

Tips of your ears burning, you smack the back of his hands - so big and mapped with veins - just so you can get drain the pasta. Joel chuckles and kisses the corner of your mouth. ‘I like it when you’re bossy, sweetheart.’

He insists on eating on the sofa, with you between his legs, and you can feel him already hard and straining through his jeans. Neither of you really make a real go at the rapidly cooling marinara, and the plates are quickly pushed to the side as them meal degenerates into a full-blown make out session.

Not yet ready to let him strip you bare or for him to disrobe him completely, clothes hang half unbuttoned and unzipped on you both. The part of your brain that still has enough blood to reason likes it though - the demure flashes of skin under creased fabric, blindly touching and feeling where you can’t see.

Your jeans are pushed halfway down your thighs, bra pushed down under your breasts, the elastic straps digging into your shoulders. His shirt is open down to the second last button, bare chest rubbing against your nipples, the contact making you whine. His belt hangs open and his jeans are unzipped, but before you can reach down, his fingers slide inside your panties, twisted and sticky, teasing your wet folds.

‘Joel,’ you whimper as he pushes two thick fingers inside you to the knuckle, your pussy slickly opening around him.

‘Does that feel good, sweetheart?’ he asks, mouthing at your collarbone.

‘More,’ you gasp.

‘I got two in you already -’

Your voice cracks in a sob, your nails digging into his back. ‘Joel, I want more. Please.’

He glances at the clock ticking away on the wall and hesitates. The rational part of him knows that he has to leave in less than twenty minutes to pick up Ellie. But feeling you leak onto his fingers, pushing your hips against him to get his fingers even deeper, his cock twitches painfully hard in his pants.

He breathes through his nose to steady himself. ‘Sweetheart, we don’t have time -‘

‘Joel!’ you whine, almost petulantly.

He stares down at you, eyes wide at your desperation. He’s never seen you like this before, and fuck, he wants to give it to you. Wants to give you what you want, what he wants. What he’s wanted for long fucking months, woken up hard and throbbing dreaming about. But he steels himself - no, not when he’s on the clock, he won’t rush it. He will give you what you deserve, and not an ounce less.

So he kisses you, long and deep, and bargains with you. ‘Listen, sweetheart, we can’t right now - but if you want to, we can try something new.’

‘Ok,’ you reply without hesitation.

A sharp breath catches in your throat when he eases his fingers out of you, and he brings them up to his mouth to lick them clean, his brow furrowing at your taste, thick on his tongue. Then you watch, transfixed, as he pushes his unzipped jeans down with his boxers, kicking them off his ankles - and his hard cock springs free of its confines.

It’s taken you many months to drum up the bravery to map his body with your touch, and you’ve mostly done so in the safety of darkness, your shyness holding you back. To see all of him, jutting hard and thick in the stark afternoon light, you don’t even hear yourself whimper at the sight.

Joel holds your gaze as he slowly wraps his fingers around the swollen length and strokes himself, lips parted, watching you watch him. ‘You trust me, sweetheart?’

‘Yes.’

‘Gonna make you feel good, ok?’

His words make you squirm beneath him. ‘Ok.’

Grabbing the base of his cock, Joel shifts, looming over you and pushing your thighs apart so they’re bent at the knees to accommodate him. Then with a delicate finger, he traces under the seat of your panties and pulls them to one side, baring your spread pussy to his eyes.

Your jaw goes slack the same time Joel bites out a filthy fuck. You know this is the first time he’s laying eyes on you there - you’ve been demure about that, preferring to be nose-to-nose with him while he buries his fingers inside you. But now, watching his eyes go black, nostrils flaring, an inexplicable high goes to your head, and you feel yourself clench around nothing.

His eyes fly to yours, and your lips part. Did he see that?

Before you can find out, Joel moves, and you hold your breath when he bows his head right where your legs are splayed open. Distracted by the beautiful chisel of his nose from this angle, you would’ve jumped right off the couch if not for his hands holding you in place when he dribbles spit onto your clit.

You cry out wordlessly, not understanding the visceral reaction of your body to the unexpectedly lewd act.

‘You’re plenty wet for me sweetheart, but this will feel even better,’ he says, spitting again, lower this time, and you tremble at the unfamiliar sensation of the wetness trailing down your folds.

Tracing a thumb over you, Joel makes a low noise of satisfaction in his chest when it glides over your lips, frictionless. Taking a hold of the base of his cock, he positions the underside of his length in the seam of your folds - and thrusts.

‘Joel!’ you whimper as the full length of him glides over the lips of your spit-wet pussy, from entrance to clit. He braces himself over you, and you hang onto his impossibly broad shoulders as he carefully rolls his hips, again and again. Rubbing along you just so, making sure you feel all of him despite not being inside you - that will have to wait.

You can feel your panties getting wetter, sticking to your skin, and Joel jolts a gasp from you when he roughly tugs the fabric hard to the side, baring more of you to his drunken gaze, witnessing the mess he’s making of you.

‘Listen t’ you,’ he slurs through gritted teeth, the lewd, wet slide of skin filling his ears. ‘Gonna sound even sweeter when I make you mine, sweetheart.’

With a whine, you arch off the couch, as if chasing the possessiveness in his words. Joel finds a rhythm that has the swollen head of his cock grinding against your clit with every thrust, and above you, he smears open-mouthed kisses over the secret spots he’s patiently unearthed by trial and error, until you’re shaking all over. It’s just what you needed, what you wanted - the elusive more that you didn’t know how to articulate. More than his fingers, but not yet ready to take everything that he can give you.

‘You’re close,’ Joel says, a quiet confidence to his verdict that coaxes a whine out of you. Holding a thumb over his cock, it presses even harder against your clit. His hips quicken in pace, and you know he’s chasing his own release as much as yours.

‘It’s ok sweetheart, you can let go, let me feel you cum for me, let me feel that pretty pussy -’

And then you’re gone. Any illusion of control over your body is just that, an illusion, when the bubble bursts. White hot pleasure burns through your bloodstream, tendrils of heat blooming and swelling from deep inside you, spilling out your fingertips twisted tightly into his graying curls.

Over the rush of blood in your ears, you hear Joel stutter fuck, fuck, fuck! before warm cum gushes over you, pooling in your belly button, spilling down your pussy and streaking your thighs.

Limbs heavy and eyelids drooping, it’s hard to care when the cum stains your panties or the couch below. Not when Joel wraps his arms around you, lips brushing the nape of your neck softly as he brackets you from behind.

Clinging onto the last vestiges of consciousness, you murmur, ‘You have to pick up Ellie soon.’

He grunts. ‘The little punk can wait.’

You smile, struggling to feel apologetic that the teenager might be waiting a while as Joel’s breathing slows, whistling softly by your ear.

In the quiet aftermath, his words echo in your head.

When I make you mine.

Little does he know, he doesn’t have to - you’re already his.

Notes: Time has really flown by since the last main series update. I've gone through so many ups and downs since, and I really need to thank you guys for giving me the time to figure things out in terms of my writing and how this story will go!

As I mentioned in Behind the Seams: Part V, I have 2 more full length chapters planned for the main series. I don't know if there will be any more after that, but at the very least, I hope that I will be adding to the Seams universe through drabbles and oneshots. I wouldn't write off the possibility of more chapters to add to the main series if I find the inspiration.

Thank you so much for reading, I hope you enjoyed this chapter ❤️

#fuckyeahseams #seams v #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller x f!reader #joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #joel miller smut #joel miller imagine

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idksmtms · 8 months

Text

Golden Globes (Cillian Murphy x reader)

Summary: Written from the perspective of press and viewers of the golden globes; how cute are Cillian Murphy and his girlfriend Y/n L/n?! From the red carpet to his acceptance speech, look at what a mesmerising couple these two make!

Word count: 2,250

Trigger Warnings: she/her pronouns, AFAB reader, very slight profanity, mostly just fluff (please let me know if I missed any)

Disclaimer: This is written purely for fictional purposes and for the sake of writing. No disrespect is intended to the real people portrayed/concerned in this scenario.

AN: Inspired by Yvonne and Cillian actually being the cutest couple ever at the Golden Globes. Also, if you catch the sneaky Succession reference: mwah! Edit: Just watched an interview clip where he says everyone calls him Cill as his nickname and I will be gratuitously using that from now on.

Always appreciate comments, likes, and reblogs :)

Part 1: Red Carpet

“And next to arrive onto the red carpet is Cillian Murphy! He’s a favourite to win the Golden Globe for Best Actor in a Drama Motion Picture, and I mean, rightly so, he killed it in Oppenheimer!”

“Right?! And I have to say, whoever styled him tonight knew what they were doing, because mmm chef’s kiss right there.”

“For real, but knowing him he probably grabbed an old suit out of his closet and put it on, hahahah.”

“I bet he wishes, but Y/n would never let him, and there she is! Oh look how stunning she looks! For all our viewers who are unaware, that’s Y/n L/n, Cillian Murphy’s girlfriend and the other half of our favourite couple!”

“Is that a vintage Schiaparelli?! Um, someone did not come to play. Aw, look how cute they are, he refuses to let go of her hand. I want a man like that.”

“The way he smiles at her?! You can really tell they love each other, and awwww she’s blushing!!! You guyssssss, I can’t handle this.”

“Hahahah, she’s forcing him to go out and strut his stuff, how sweet. That’s the definition of a supportive partner right there, always wanting you to have your moment to shine.”

“Honestly, and like, I know we’re supposed to be watching Cillian but guys look how SHE watches him. That’s true love right there, and no one can convince me otherwise.”

“D’you remember that interview where he talked about the little gifts she gets him at the end of each of his movies?”

“Oh my god yeah, that was adorable, she makes him something small to remember each of his movies, like she knits or crochets or crafts something for him right?”

“Yeah, exactly, well apparently, since this was his sixth movie with Nolan, she made the little tokens for all the producers and like the lead team. I was in TEARS when I heard, because who is that sweet? Like who is THAT sweet to their partner’s whole team?”

“I didn’t know that, oh my god, I love her even more. No wonder Cillian loves her, I get it, I fully support it.”

“Ok, seems like Cillian’s done getting his pictures taken and- aw! He’s looking for her! Cillian, bestie, she’s right there, ok ok ok, they found each other. Look at that hug!”

“A man who adjusts the train of your dress like that to help you walk easier??? That is a man worth having, and Cillian Murphy is clearly the best man. Gosh look at the way she leans into him when they walk, and he’s just rubbing her back all soft and sweet, aaaaa I think I’m gonna melt.”

“Oo! Ok, they’re going for interviews and the next person to come up is…”

Part 1.2: Interview

“Hi Cillian! How are you feeling tonight?”

“I’m doing well thank you, a little nervous I guess, how are you?”

“I’m great! Having a lot of fun here at the Golden Globes! How did you enjoy the red carpet? Any chance to meet others yet?”

“Yeah, it’s grand, very… opulent, heh, and no! Unfortunately I haven’t had a chance to properly greet anyone yet, but I’m sure when we get inside I’ll have plenty of time for that.”

“Alright, let’s talk about your movie for a bit, how does it feel to see all the recognition it’s getting?”

“It feels deserved, you know? Everyone worked so hard on that film and put in a hundred and ten percent and it feels like people have really noticed it and seen not only the talent but the effort the team put in.”

“Were you expecting such resounding fame for the movie?”

“I mean, I definitely knew at least some people would watch it because Chris made it, hahaha, and people have recognised how amazing he is, but I guess you never really know how popular a movie is going to be until it comes out. But it’s truly amazing to see how it resonated with audiences.”

“You’ve spoken in past interviews about the importance of a strong and accepting support system for people in this line of work, how did such an intense movie fit into your life?”

“I mean, I treated it like I treat all my roles - it is a job at the end of the day - but it’s always great to have my family willing to put up with odd schedules and having to be away from home for long periods of time. My girlfriend, heh, she’s actually really great with this stuff. She always makes sure to call me while I’m away, she comes to visit as often as she can, and she just has this way of making anywhere feel like home, you know? Regardless of where I am, or what I’m doing, I can count on her, and that’s probably the best part of my life. It’s a really bad habit of hers but she stays up late with me if I have an oddly timed call or interview or whatever, just to be there with me.”

“Aw, that’s so sweet! It’s amazing the way you talk about her, she sounds like a great person!”

“She really really is. I mean, there’s some people out there who are just blessed with the biggest hearts and even just their presence can make life better, you know? And that’s her. I don’t know where I would be without her in my life to be honest with you.”

“Oh how cute! Well, we’ll let you go, tell your girlfriend how much we love her, and good luck with your award tonight!”

“Thank you.”

Part 2: The Main Event

“And the Golden Globe goes to… Cillian Murphy!” You let out a rather unholy shriek that you were sure would be caught on camera and posted all over, but you were too excited to care. You jumped up, grabbing Cillian by his shoulders and pressing your lips to his mouth and face, over and over until there were lipstick smudges across his nose.

“You did it Cill! You did it,” you whispered, rubbing at his face to try and wipe away the lipstick. He had the lightest red splotches across his nose and cheek but they mixed into the flush on his skin so you let him be after a moment. Your face hurt from smiling, your whole body buzzing because finally, finally, he had gotten the recognition he had long deserved.

“Oh boy, my first question, do I have lipstick all over my nose? Ah, I’m just gonna leave it. Um, I-I knew the first time that I walked on Chris Nolan’s set that it was different. I could tell by the level of rigour, the level of focus, the level of dedication, the complete lack of any seating options for actors, heheh, that it was-that I was in the hands of a visionary director and master. I wanna thank Chris, and Emma, for having the faith in me for-for twenty years, and six feckin pictures! So, thanks so much. Um, one of the most beautiful and vulnerable things about being an actor is that you can’t do it on your own, really, and we had the most incredible ensemble cast in this movie, it was magic, and some of them are here today. Emily Blunt, Robert Downey Jr, Matt Damon, Gary Oldman, thank you for carrying me and holding me through this movie. Um, thank you to- thank you! Uh, thank you to Dara Langley, and everyone at Universal for believing in this movie from the very beginning. Uh, oh! To all my fellow nominees - if you’re Irish or not - you’re all legends, stunning work guys, I salute you. Um, to all my reps, all my team, uh thank you so much you’re the best. To my girlfriend, you are the light of my life, the love I couldn’t live without, thank you for always being there. To my family, I’m the luckiest man, I love you, thanks so much guys!”

Part 3: Top Ten

“Hello everyone and welcome back to the ATN News youtube channel! Today we are looking at our top ten favourite Cillian Murphy moments from the Golden Globes and spoiler alert: they all have something to do with his girlfriend because, let’s face it guys, they’re our favourite unproblematic power couple! Just a reminder that we did similar videos for some other celebrities so you can check them out on our channel but let’s get started!

Number 1: When they were walking into the hall and he held her purse for her! This is a personal favourite because I love someone who notices the little things, and the fact that he just kinda slipped it from her hands?? Cuteness overload.

Number 2: This one is my personal favourite. During the break, the camera was just kinda moseying around and it caught them whispering to each other and just laughing. Look at how lovey dovey they are, leaning against each other, just whispering in each other’s ears. I really wanna know what they’re saying because I’m sure they are the most hilarious people on earth, but it’s also so intimate that I don’t wanna disturb them, you know? And she’s holding his hand in her lap aaaa! I have to move on otherwise I’m just gonna sit here and watch this all day.

Number 3: Ok, at number three we have the couple’s red carpet glam moment! After getting some solo pictures taken, Cillian had Y/n walk the carpet with him and they slayed. I mean they slayyyyyed. Their outfits were amazing, their chemistry was amazing, their poses were amazing just- amazing. The fact that she did the little heel kick in one of the pictures?? Iconic. Cillian, Y/n, if you guys are looking for recommendations I would frame the picture where Y/n’s kissing the air just before Cillian’s cheek, it’s funny and it’s cute.

Number 4: This is a moment from an interview he gave where they asked him about life with Y/n, take a listen.

“You know she’s just the best. We both have our own strengths at home and I think they fit together so well and it just works perfectly. Like, I’m terrible at D.I.Y. Just absolutely hopeless, and good or not, she’s tenacious. If she starts a project for the house, no matter how hard, she will learn what to do and she will finish it. It’s inspiring honestly. Just every little thing she does inspires me.”

Number 5: Halfway through and this might also be my personal favourite (agh I can’t choose!). When Y/n fed Cillian something from her plate?? Guys, when I saw that, I kid you not I almost melted. She just gently taps his shoulder, lifts her fork to his mouth, and feeds him. Was he too nervous to eat?? Did she notice and make sure he ate something?? Or is that just something they do? Like if you walked into their house at a random dinner time she might just randomly feed him something?? Either way, it was cute and I bet they make everyone sick with their love and I’m here for it.

Number 6: Another simple one, but when he sat back with his arm over her chair? He just kinda leaned to the side and put his arm on the back of her chair and she just kinda shifted closer into his side- and they didn’t even stop their conversations with other people! They just did it! Being that intune with someone is just nghdhm. I have no words.

Number 7: Alright, so some fan pics came out after the event of the couple leaving the venue, and look at this, he’s carrying her shoes for her!!! The pictures are a little grainy, but you can clearly see him holding the heels that she was wearing during the event while they walk to the car. She’s even carrying his award for him, what a bunch of cutiepies!

Number 8: Another one from the fan pics - and another personal favourite (leave me alone) - is those cuties dancing on the street! I think it’s near their house and the pictures capture him twirling her, and they’re both laughing so much and then they’re hugging and Cillian’s just swaying her (all while holding that Golden Globe mind you) and they just look so happy and in love. Brb, I need something to tackle this overdose of cute.

Number 9: Our second last moment is when Y/n kissed Cillian right before he went up to accept his award! Just, the scream, the kiss, the lipstick on his face, all of it is so perfect. And the fact that he left it on his face while giving his speech? Our king, have no shame, proudly show her love!

Number 10: And of course, the final favourite has to be Cillian’s speech. He was funny, he was gracious, and honestly? It was perfect. If my boyfriend called me the light of his life in a room full of famous people, on a live broadcast that like millions of people are watching, I would probably just start proposing to him at that moment. Like he really said “the love I couldn’t live without” can you imagine that kind of devotion?! I want that.

Anyway! Thanks for watching our top ten Cillian Murphy moments. Don’t forget to like and subscribe!”

AN: Yes, I did transcribe his whole acceptance speech. No further questions.

Taglist: @4ria790

#cillian murphy imagine #cillian murphy fanfiction #cillian x reader #cillian murphy #cillian x fem!reader #cillian x y/n #cillianmurphy #cillian #cillian fic #cillian murphy x y/n #cillian murphy x reader #oppenheimer #christopher nolan

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urhoneycombwitch · 9 months

Text

honey, I’m home

🍯 honey flavour: Xmas fluff and smut drabble

🐝 the beebees: linecook!Eddie x reader

wc: 2.5k

Content warnings: soft dom Eddie, smut, oral (f receiving), reader has fem anatomy, gratuitous use of the nickname ‘princess’, Christmas fluff

foreword: so many delish linecook!Eddie ideas out there I’m throwing my hat into the ring. holiday edition. i wrote this while hiding in my room from relatives lol. my first time w/longer-form on tumblr like this send help I’m scared!!!!

Linecook!Eddie working a long shift at the diner ‘cuz he picked up shitty Christmas Eve hours to be with you all day Christmas, which he swore was worth it despite your earlier protests.

You’ve got some of the Gang over at the trailer helping you wrap presents; everyone’s hands are busy with mugs of cocoa and Scotch tape and too-long ribbons.

Robin and Steve are squabbling over a prized tube of wrapping paper on the couch, Max and El are stretched out on the floor stringing popcorn garlands, and you’re overseeing Dustin’s attempts at bow-tying on the coffee table when Eddie walks in.

And he’s scuffing his boots on the mat, shaking snow from his hair, sidling up to you when you stand to greet him and pressing his face into your neck. You squeak at his cold nose and you can feel him smile against your skin as he hugs you tighter.

“Are you gonna keep making out with your girlfriend or are you gonna help us?” Dustin grouses, irritable from all the energy he’s expended on the bows that just don’t look quite right.

You move to pull away, feeling a lil chastised (by a teenager, no less) but Eddie slips his strong arm around your waist, locking you in place, not bothering to break eye contact with you as he says resolutely, “I’m gonna keep making out with my girlfriend.”

He plants one on you right in front of everyone and although your first instinct is to feel embarrassed it’s quickly drowned out by the desire to keep kissing him, because my god can that boy kiss. And he does. With gusto. Ringed hands on either side of your face, thumbs stroking the apples of your cheeks.

There are girlish giggles coming from the pair on the floor; Dustin’s grumbling about needing bleach for his eyes, Steve calls out something about you and Eddie getting a room.

Without missing a beat or taking his lips from yours, Eddie lifts a hand from your face to flip the boy on the couch off. When he finally does pull back, it’s just enough to ask, quietly, as if you’re the only people in the room- “You have dinner yet, sweetheart?”

You shake your head, his one hand still resting on your cheek, a little out of breath- “No, uh, nope. We were waitin’ for you, thought we’d order pizza, or…”

You trail off. He looks downright fucking beautiful, in the soft, glowy Christmas lighting, white work tanktop peeking out from his black and blue flannel, glint of silver chains at his neck. You haven’t seen him since early this morning, when he’d pressed a kiss to your half-awake head and left for work. Now he was here, smelling like woodsmoke and maple syrup and looking at you with those doey eyes and all you want to do is press kisses against his adam’s apple until he melts under you and why oh why had you invited people over again…?

“I’m going to make my beautiful girlfriend here something to eat. Would any of you miscreants care for some grub?” Eddie finally turns his attention to your group of friends, who all claim hunger in equal measure, and you follow him into the kitchen.

You watch as he starts assembling a variety of mixing bowls and utensils on the counter, whistling as he goes; you hug your arms against yourself, dragging a sock foot against the tile.

“I can help,” you offer as Eddie kneels beside you to produce a waffle iron from the cabinet by your legs. “I can stir things, or make sides, o-or…”

Eddie’s warm palm is sliding up the back of your calf, causing you to stutter. He nuzzles his nose against your plaid pajama-covered thigh, briefly, like he can’t help it, before standing back up.

“With these hands?” He teases gently, setting the waffle maker down and pulling your hand to his lips. “Nah. Gotta keep my girl soft.”

You let him kiss the back of your hand and you rotate it in his grasp, palm-up now, his lips pressing against the center there, and you try again to get him to let you help, because he just worked a 12-hour shift and you know he must be bone-tired by now.

With your voice barely above a whisper- “I could… get the plates out…”

One final kiss to your palm, and then he’s looking at you with such fondness, calloused thumb tapping where his lips just were. “Does breakfast for dinner strike your fancy, good lady?”

When you nod, he says with affectionate sternness, “Good. Now go sit pretty in the living room and get out of my kitchen.”

So you obey, cozying up to Robin on the couch to help her with the last few presents amid the bickering still taking place between her and Steve. Nat King Cole serenades from the tinny radio speakers above the clattering in the kitchen, and Dustin’s mood improves drastically once El offers to show him the ropes of popcorn stringing, half-tied bows abandoned at the coffee table.

You look up periodically from your tape sticking to check on Eddie- at some point, he’d put his hair in a low bun and tied his flannel around his hips, the heat of the kitchen causing his bangs to go limp. He’s in good spirits despite the sleepiness you know he’s fighting, humming along to the radio while he coaxes perfectly golden waffles from the iron and onto the Charlie Brown-themed plates you two had bought at the thrift store for fifty cents apiece last summer.

He sweeps into the living room with plates of steaming food balanced on his forearms, his stability impeccable and arms deceptively strong from years of hefting shit around in the kitchen. Obviously, you’re the first to get your plate, dropped off with a little kiss to the crown of your head, but no one’s complaining this time around because they’re too busy chewing.

Eddie’s personalized each order, of course- extra syrup to satiate El’s sweet tooth, blueberries baked into Steve’s stack, a side of peanut butter for Robin paired with a thick handled-butterknife.

Eleven looks up from where she sits cross-legged beside Max and says in a voice that leaves no room for disagreement, “You are the best cook in Hawkins.”

Eddie beams at her around a mouthful of waffle, knocking his shoulder into yours lightly- “You hear that, honey? Supergirl-approved chef at your service.”

Sticky plates get scraped clean and pushed aside, a rosy fullness lulling everyone into easy conversation about various holiday plans happening tomorrow. Eddie’s settled into your side on the couch, sliding his hand back and forth absently across your thigh, and you can tell by the vacant stare he’s giving the far wall that he’s running on fumes (though he’d never admit it in front of anyone but you, all too happy to give and give until there’s nothing left).

So you make the call for the both of you, giving a dramatic stretch and yawn- “All right, gang, I’m beat. Let’s call it for tonight and pick back up on Christmas?”

There’s a bustle of activity for the next few minutes; you and Steve hunt down everyone’s winter gear, getting the kids back into their gloves and warm hats while Robin helps Eddie with the dishes. In a flurry of see-you-tomorrows and calls for safe driving, Eddie pulls the front door shut and snicks the top lock closed.

“Finally,” he groans, and you can’t hold back the laugh that bubbles from you with the speed at which he has you caged against the wall, trailing a line of kisses down your throat, his sleepy state seemingly abandoned for a much hornier one.

“Somethin’ funny?” he muses, before sucking at the spot where your shoulder and neck join, your laugh catching and rolling into a gasp instead.

“Didn’t think so,” Eddie chuckles, darkly, against the hollow of your throat, adding a scrape of teeth over the bruise that’s sure to bloom. “You gonna be a good girl and let me have dessert?”

Your brain is already going fuzzy as he bullies his hands underneath your shirt, cold rings sending shivers across your body as they slide against your lower back, the plush curve of your hip, dipping down down down.

“Don’t you wanna-” your voice comes out shaking, interrupted by another gasp as Eddie’s hands find the bare meat of your ass and he squeezes, bordering that fine line between too harsh and too good that he knows you love- “-shower, or clean up a bit? I can run you a bath-”

Eddie slips his denim-clad thigh between yours, and fuck the presure is just right as he helps your core roll over his knee with his solid grip.

“I think…” he purrs low against the shell of your ear, grinning when your breath gets all shallow and quick, “you should come on my fingers like I’ve been dreamin’ about all day. And then we’ll talk about cleaning up.”

He makes a compelling argument. Resigned, you let your head thunk back against the wall as he sinks to his knees, pulling your pants down your legs as he goes.

You’ve soaked through your underwear at this point, which might’ve been embarrassing except for the fact that Eddie’s told you before how much it gets him going, evident now by the outline of his hard cock straining against his jeans.

“All for me, princess?” he murmurs, face so close to your clothed core that you can feel his breath.

He gets like this sometimes, downright reverent, and you know any attempt you make to hide from him will just wind him up more, so you fight that instinct to balk as he parts your thighs with tender, worshipful hands, and instead whisper “Yeah, Eds. All for you.”

He hums in approval, nosing at the front of your panties, hooking his long, deft fingers into the sides of them before tugging them down your thighs and tossing them aside.

“There she is,” he croons, as if it’s just him and your pussy now. “Don’t cry for me, baby, I’m here now, gonna take care of you…”

You jolt forward into his grasp as he slides his middle finger against your sticky folds, your hands seeking purchase and ending up in the soft curls at the top of his head that didn’t make it to the bun at the nape of his neck.

“All day, I work over a hot griddle,” Eddie mutters as he hooks your knee over his shoulder. “I make shit wages and shittier tips,” he continues, monologuing, the smug son of a bitch, his breath fanning over your now-exposed core, one hand coming up to rest on the softness of your stomach, pinning you in place right where he wants you- “And you know what makes it all worth it, baby?”

He pauses just before his mouth makes contact with your pussy, flicking his gaze up to you to assess the damage he’s done so far, his pupils blown wide with lust, nearly eclipsing the soft brown of his irises. You’re panting now, in little fits and gasps, doing your best to be gentle with the weaved grasp you have on his hair.

“You,” he says, before closing the gap and sucking your clit into his mouth.

“Oh fuck,” you whimper, back arching off the wall, seizing at his hair and unconsciously tugging his mouth tighter against you.

Eddie hums again, the vibrations sparking more pleasure against your throbbing clit. You could probably come from this stimulation alone but Eddie isn’t wasting any time, hungry for you to fall apart for him as he works one of his dextrous fingers into your dripping core.

You cry out wordlessly as he finds that spot with the pad of his finger, stroking against it, purling his tongue around your clit in tandem with the thrust of his hands, adding another finger as you clench around him.

He’s only been at it for a few minutes but you’re already dangerously close to the edge, lust burning and twisting in your stomach, your body shuddering in his hold.

“C’mon, pretty girl,” he’s saying into the juncture of your thigh, pleading- with you or your cunt, hard to say- as his hand on your stomach slips down, using the thumb of that hand to press your clit against your pubic bone, a filthy slick grind that has you whimpering expletives.

“Fuck, Eddie, fu-uck…”

One of your legs is still over his shoulder, thighs spasming with your impending orgasm, and from your higher vantage point you watch as Eddie’s hand that isn’t busy between your legs drops from the outside of your thigh to his own lap.

He grinds shamelessly into the heel of his hand, rutting his clothed cock into his palm, chasing his own high as he adds another finger into your clenching core, setting a brutal pace that matches the speed at which he’s moving against himself.

It’s this picture- Eddie, on his knees, mouth on your clit, touching himself- that is your undoing. Your orgasm is blinding, crashing through you like a wave, curling the top half of your body around Eddie’s head as you cradle his skull against your core.

By the sound of it, Eddie’s coming, too, moans buried into your cunt as he wrings out the last of your orgasm, the squelch of your walls cinched taut around his fingers.

You have to physically push his head away with the tips of your fingers to get him to ease up- you know he could easily go another two, three rounds before being satisfied but your limbs are going weak and trembly and you want him close, that rush of endorphins leaving you hazy.

And Eddie knows, instantly, ‘cuz he always does, so good at reading you. He lets your leg slip from his shoulder and stands to kiss you, the tangy taste of you on his lips.

“You’re so hot,” he says, thunking his foreheard against yours, holding you close. “I meant what I said, y’know- think about you all day. Gotta take trips to the walk-in freezer just to stop the boners.”

He looks overly pleased when you laugh, giddily, and soothes his hands up and down your bare arms.

“You gonna shower with me? Didn’t even getta see the girls,” he laments, dropping his gaze to the front of your shirt, rucked-up from his wandering hands but still very much on.

“Anything for you, chef,” you indulge, giggling again as Eddie gives a kiss each to the tops of your breasts.

_____________________

if you’re reading this PLEASE know my anons/requests are open I am in desperate need of more ST mutuals!!!

#eddie munson x reader #Eddie Munson smut #stranger things smut #linecook!eddie Munson #linecook!eddie

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lovelyunholyc · 1 year

Text

starving, darling

!!nsfw, minors and blank/ageless blogs dni - will be blocked :)!!

fem!reader, names (sweetheart, baby, darling, my love, reader calls him good boy). praise, spitting, oral (f! receiving), cum eating, creampie, unprotected sex. gratuitous descriptions of making out...bc who doesn't want to eat choso whole.... ',:|

you have no measure of the power you hold.

to bring a strong, towering curse to its knees, to make him feel something he had never felt before, had been missing for a millenia, an eternity, it seems, sometimes. choso himself cannot fathom the power you hold over him, cannot seem to comprehend why he so willingly lays himself at your feet - you, a delightful little beauty, a simple little human.

choso likes to be held like this, you had learned quickly. in quiet moments, in the safety of your bed, he buries his face in your bosom, arms secure around your waist, and you brush through the tangles of his hair with your fingers, soothing his scalp; just that morning you'd helped him brush them into those unruly buns he likes, that endear him to you so much. his weight across your bottom half is comforting, his warmth seeping into you.

he's still a little shy to ask for what he wants, but already you've learned him and can glean from the tired droop of his eyes (though they shine just a bit when he sees you), the pout pulling at his lips, and you open your arms and pull him into you.

he'd known he loved you when he watched you dress his brother's wounds that first time. your touches were tender, yet firm and sure, unwavering.

and then you had turned to him, that adorable pinch of concern to your brow, giving him a once over to ensure he was unharmed, before wrapping him in a bone crushing embrace. he'd laughed at the contrast of your gentleness with yuuji to the strength you displayed when you squeezed him.

you're full of contradictions: soft yet hard, tender yet tough, loving yet - when necessary, ruthless. he wants to unravel every single one of them until he has you figured out completely, and then memorize every aspect of you until he can think of nothing else.

he still hasn't had the courage to tell you.

when you hold him like this, so soft and warm and adoring, soothing the aches in his muscles, the cloudiness in his mind, he thinks he doesn't have to.

choso looks up just to be able to admire your beauty, cheek to your chest, ear pressed to the steady thrum of your heartbeat, and you pause stroking his hair to smile softly down at him. "hi, handsome," you purr.

heat rises to his face; he'll never get used to your praise, would rather sing yours instead. still, it makes his heart flutter every time, makes a giddy feeling take over his chest.

he hides his face back in the fabric of your shirt, suddenly shy. it was bad enough for his heart that he'd found you lounging in bed in nothing but one of his undershirts and your underwear, warm and smelling fresh and faintly like your favorite perfume.

you giggle, a sound so lovely that he swears he could listen to it forever, and revels in how it vibrates through your chest and seeps into him. "choso," you call so sweetly, he has no choice but to turn to you once more, cheeks burning. "can i kiss you, sweetheart?"

the nickname makes him blush even harder, though a zip of pleasure buzzes through his body at the confident way you address him, knowing he wouldn't ever refuse.

choso just nods, raises himself up gently to meet your lips.

though you're below him, you dominate the kiss. with a soft nibble to his bottom lip, he parts them easily, lets you slip your tongue into his mouth to coax his out for you to suck on. you lick at his lips, slow and purposeful with your movements, intent on getting him to moan sweetly against you (which he does quickly), on making the back of his neck prickle with pleasure, his fingers to twitch at your sides.

he loves the way you taste, how quickly you can make him fall apart on your tongue. the way you tug lightly at his hair to maneuver his head the way you like, to delve even deeper and take over his mouth. he loves letting you take control of him, his pleasure; you take such good care of him, let his thoughts and worries fade away and allow him to just (feel).

when you pull back, you leave him breathless, panting lightly but smiling because you continue to trail your lips up the line of his jaw, across his cheek and over the bridge of his nose to follow the inky black line bisecting his face. he closes his eyes and revels in your careful attention, your soothing touch. he hums in satisfaction, like a cat purring low and lovely, and the sound makes you giggle softly against his skin.

you touch your noses together and grin, kissing him once more before beckoning him to lie next to you. you sling your arm around his neck and lean over him, your faces still barely a breath apart, basking in the closeness, the comfort.

"how are you today, baby?" your words are simple, soft against his skin as they brush along the strong line of his jaw, but they make his chest warm.

before you, who else outside of his brothers had cared enough about him to know?

choso takes comfort in the warm weight of you settling across his chest, soft hands cradling his face, the pads of your thumbs smoothing absently over his cheeks, and the intensity of the day that had worn away at him so forcefully, instantly dulls and melts away beneath your touch. he relaxes completely in your hold, a bliss he'd never known and from now on would never let go to the best of his ability.

"fine," is all he says, though watching his expression change, knowing all his tells, you know he means much more. "i missed you." and that, you know he means tenfold by the emotion in his voice, the tender hold of his hands on your hips, long fingers drifting up along your lower back beneath the hem of your top, chasing the warmth of your skin.

for someone so skilled in blood manipulation, he never seemed to be warm enough without touching you.

the constant little reminders he gives you that in his overabundance of time on earth, you're something completely new to him, entirely different and extraordinary, somehow - it never fails to make your heart race.

"mm, missed you, too, my love."

you grin almost sheepishly when you say it, though he knows that doesn't take any sincerity away from the sentiment, especially when it brings heat to your cheeks, makes your smile so lovely.

my love. your love. his love.

choso can't help but smile with you, tilting up almost imperceptibly in search of your pretty lips again, yet you indulge him so easily, as if on instinct, as if you can read his mind as naturally as breathing.

you kiss him soft and slow, savoring the taste of him, the feel of him, as if you were memorizing his mouth all over again. the quiet moan he lets out, that you swallow up without hesitation, coaxing out more, more, more, makes you shiver inexplicably. you only let him go for mere fractions of a second to breathe, and neither of you could be happier to drown in each other, in the deep, passionate movements of your lips, your tongues, sharing breaths until you're lightheaded.

it's dizzying, how much he wants you. now, more than ever, but always. now, most, because it's the present - later he knows he'll want you even more than he ever has.

when you pull away a final time you're grinning devilishly, cheeks full with it and a shade darker with the rush of blood, lips wet and bitten an irresistible red that makes his mouth water even more. you've somehow migrated into his lap, legs on either side of him, fingers woven into his soft hair, his own hands caressing your back beneath your shirt and squeezing appreciatively at the thick of your thighs.

you see the lovesick look in his pretty eyes, clouded with desire and syrupy sweet, and can't help but chuckle quietly to yourself, though you must know you're not much better off.

"what do you want, darling?" you ask from mere centimeters away, tracing his plump bottom lip with your thumb, leaning in to kitten lick at it and swipe your combined spit away from the smooth skin.

choso nearly whimpers, his tongue darting out on instinct to follow the trace of where yours had been, his eyes glazing over even further. you know, of course you know.

you pull back a bit further, sitting up on his hips, hands propping you up on his chest. you had felt his cock stir a long, breathless moment before, and it ached now, hard and heavy against the heat of your center, confined beneath both your layers of clothing, twitching and throbbing for attention.

"you look like you want something, sweetheart," you purr, teasing, and the difference in your tone presently from when you'd first spoken, the dangerous gleam in your eyes now, is enough to make his head spin.

choso wets his lips again, desperation coating every syllable. "i want you."

you smile wide, satisfied, reward him with a slow roll of your hips that makes his jaw drop just a little. "yeah?"

"yes, i-" he cuts himself off with a gasp when you do it again, "-i want to make you feel good."

the sincerity, the wholeheartedness that floods his voice and the look in his eyes, how eager he always is to please you, always makes your heart melt. you pause, leaning back down to kiss him again, short and sweet, a small reminder of your overwhelming affection.

"you will, choso," you murmur against his lips, feel his whole body tremor with excitement and anticipation beneath you. "as long as it's you."

when you pull away again, he follows you, holds you close to his chest with big arms winding across your back, fingertips traversing over the smooth expanse of your skin. you smile when you capture his lips again, reluctant to part until he finally asks, "may i pleasure you?"

you can't help but giggle quietly at his politeness, charmed as you always are by how earnest he is in everything he does, a sort of genuine innocence in his actions and the way he carries himself that opposes his physicality and age. it never fails to send you reeling, heat blooming in your gut.

you nod easily, kiss him as if in answer. you nip at his perfectly petal-soft lips, sucking his bottom lip into your mouth before releasing it with a satisfied hum, grazing your teeth along the skin just to make him shiver. your fingers drift back up to his jaw, caress at the edges of it as you shift carefully up his body, straddling his stomach instead so you can stare down at him from a higher angle with a wanton smile.

"can i give you something first, darling?"

the hazy lust gleaming in his eyes intensifies as he blinks slowly, eyelids heavy under your own hungry gaze. he's breathing heavy from your kisses and the anticipation, chest heaving beneath one of your palms.

"please," choso breathes, ever so polite, the movement of his lips tickling the pad of your thumb when you trace over them again, hand gliding down to pinch his chin gently between your thumb and forefinger. there is no pressure behind your touch, merely a guide - support, because his body knows instinctively what to do, poised and ready.

your grin is nothing short of wicked. you can't help but lean down for a moment to peck at his lips again, before rising back up and pursing your own.

choso clutches at your waist with lightly trembling fingers, pretty lips parting so nicely as he opens up for you, tongue resting dutifully on his bottom lip. you splay your fingers out across his throat in a loose grip as he bares it just for you, thumb tracing over the edge of his jaw. the hand on his chest moves to tangle through his soft, soft hair, like silk between your fingers, and he looks up at you expectantly, eagerly, eyes shining with the thrill of it, the silent plea for you to take care of him.

it doesn't take you long to gather enough saliva. you watch him carefully, releasing it slowly to drip like syrup down onto his waiting tongue, stroking lovingly at his jaw with your thumb.

"good boy," you whisper sweetly when he swallows you down like it's nectar, and you feel his adam's apple bob beneath your palm. he shivers at the praise, tilts his chin up in that way again, hearts in his eyes and all across those pretty lips, slick with your spit and his own, searching for more of you, so you giggle softly and shift again to kiss him deeply.

when you render him breathless again, he speaks through soft pants. "i want you to-" -there's that hesitation, the pause before he can say what he truly wants, encouraged to continue when you peck lovingly at his pretty face- "-can you cum on my face?"

and who are you to deny him?

you nudge your nose against his fondly, already shoving at the flimsy waistband of your panties, giddy at his promise. "of course, darling," you breathe against his lips, swallow down his low groan as he helps you wriggle out of your underwear and slides his fingers up between your folds.

you're soaked - his long, elegant fingers glide easily along your slit, his thumb practically slipping over your clit and making you jolt.

choso doesn't bother much more after the initial touch - he's impatient, and feeling your sweetness on his hand isn't nearly enough to satiate him and only further delays what he really wants. you huff a little when he grabs at your thighs and hoists you up to nudge your pussy closer to his face, laughing softly at his eagerness and petting at his hair before positioning yourself properly, his head below you and between your knees.

before you can ask if he's even ready, choso pulls you down, kissing at the crease between your inner thigh before diving into your sweet, dripping cunt.

he groans appreciatively, deep and guttural, after giving your slit one long, slow lick, from your hole to your clit, punctuating it with a swirl of the tip of his tongue at the swollen bud, wrapping his lips around it to flick at it until you're whining and trying to squirm out of his hold from the intensity. choso holds you firm with those strong fingers dug into the flesh of your thighs, a smile playing at his lips when he finally releases your clit to lap up your sweet nectar instead.

he takes his time, savoring you, sliding his tongue smoothly along your folds and relishing how you mewl for him, at each gush of arousal he coaxes out only to lick up and moan with satisfaction. the vibrations of his deep voice against where you're most sensitive leaves you reeling, clutching at the headboard and his soft hair below you, back arching when he delves his tongue deeper, dipping into your entrance as far as he can go, his nose nudging at your clit in tandem.

"oh, fuck, baby," you whimper when he thrusts his tongue into you, shameless in his open enjoyment, whining along with you as you spout random praise, and bucking his hips into the air inadvertently.

he snakes one hand down to relieve some of the ache, squeezing desperately at his straining cock, your breathy cries of his name and the obscene, wet sound of him lapping up your slick like music to his ears. he could swear he sees heaven when you tug at his hair, when he withdraws his hand from himself in favor of urging you to start grinding on his face, two of his fingers slipping easily into your entrance.

your hips stutter first in uncertainty, concerned about him, like always, but choso doesn't loosen his hold, one hand clutching at your bottom and pushing you forward onto his flattened tongue. soon enough, with his fingers pumping in rhythm, it feels too good for you to resist, and you lose yourself on his hunger to taste you, to take from you until he's satisfied. your hips are moving wildly, chasing the sweet friction of his smooth tongue, the tip of his nose, the tremor his voice elicits when he moans so deeply, pleased at what he can do for you, how much pure pleasure only he can give you.

he knows your body so well, he can tell instantly when you're close - the choked up gasps, your muscles beginning to tense - he sucks ruefully on your clit once more, curling his fingers in just the right way to press into that sensitive spot inside you. he doesn't relent even when you throw your head back with a sharp cry of his name, hips shoving down on him and undoubtedly complicating his ability to breathe - no, instead, he doubles down, pulls his fingers back and forces his tongue as deep into your fluttering hole as he's able, just so he can feel your walls spasm around his tongue and greedily swallow down everything you gush out as you orgasm, completely lost in his brand of euphoria.

choso loses himself too, forgets about his own aching cock begging for release still confined in his pants - he could care less about breathing properly either - he licks into you with vigor, mesmerized by your sweet, pretty little pussy, until you're wriggling away from sensitivity, thighs quivering, weakly pushing at his fingers still gripping tightly at your cheeks (where he's surely left bruises in the shape of his fingertips, and the thought makes him shiver in delight).

when he finally lets you go, you collapse into bed beside him, rolling on your side to sling a shaking leg possessively over his waist, grinning gleefully up at him; the sight of his face, reddened with exertion, tainted all across with a mix of your arousal and his spit, hair mussed and sticking to his dampened forehead - gives you a whole new rush of giddiness. you're both breathing heavy, but despite that, you bring him closer with a hand on the nape of his neck. you run your tongue along the seam of his wet, red lips, shades darker and swollen with use, moaning softly at the taste of yourself, before licking into his mouth, sucking that capable, lovely tongue into your own mouth.

"oh, you're so sweet to me, aren't you?" you coo when you pull back, laughing breathlessly and swiping at the mess on his face with your fingers. "so lovely." you pepper kisses across his cheeks and nose as you go, nosing at his heated skin and delighting at his soft smile and the gooey look shining in his eyes, clearly lovestruck.

choso preens under your attention and praise, fingers twitching on the small of your back when you trail yours down the solid plane of his abdomen. "my love," you continue quietly with your nose pressed to his cheek, your tone so gentle yet palpable, your breath tickling his skin, making him shiver, "you're so good to me, so handsome too." he closes his eyes and can't help but whine helplessly when your hand slides under his waistband and fists his cock.

you thumb at the glistening head before pulling it out fully, glancing down just to catch a glimpse of how pretty you know it to be, thick and heavy in your hand, throbbing with need and already so wet with his excitement. you squeeze tighter at the base then, cooing at him once more when his whole body jolts at the sweet pressure. "oh, my poor baby." you kiss him again, pumping his cock simultaneously, eager to swallow up all the pleased little sounds he makes. "i'll take care of you, too, okay?"

choso just nods vigorously, eyebrows scrunching up adorably as you swirl your thumb over the tip of his cock again, flicking at the frenulum and toying with his sensitivity. he gasps out your name when you twist your hand on your downstroke, and you nip at his jaw playfully, so charmed by his reactions.

"you wanna cum inside me, baby?" you're back at his lips, biting lightly at them as you wait for him to compose himself enough to answer between heavy breaths, his fingers kneading restlessly at your waist. "i want you, choso, want you to fill me up nice and deep, like only you can."

he bucks up into your hand at that involuntarily, and it takes all his strength not to keep going lest he spill into your fist before he can even get between your legs again. "y-yes, please," he nearly whimpers, spurred on by another passionate kiss you grace him with, to switch positions and hover above you, on his knees between yours.

you pull at his top until he tugs it off and tosses it away carelessly, your fingers immediately tracing over the ridges of muscle along his chest, his abdomen, nearly purring with satisfaction when they flex and jump beneath your touch as he moves. you trace along his scars, too, etched into his otherwise smooth skin, cruel imperfections that you've already memorized, continuing your trail even when he bends to get closer to you, capturing your lips again like he can't bear to be even that far from you.

he moans so deliciously into your mouth when you find his dick again, wasting no time and pressing him against your pussy to coat him in your slick. he ruts against your folds, he can't help it, you're so warm and wet and heavenly, and he didn't know he could be so impatient.

"inside, baby," you murmur against his lips, breaking him out of his trance only to put him in another spell when you guide him to your entrance.

your back arches as he pushes into you, agonizingly slow despite how wet and wanting you already are, your muscles barely offering any sort of resistance. choso splits you open in every way, you think, his forehead pressed to yours, breathing you in just as deeply as he feeds into you, stretching you wide on the swollen crown of his dick and pinning you in place, hands fisting the sheets beside your head, his elbows locked behind your knees. you're taking him so nicely it's like your cunt is sucking him in, walls clutching so sweetly at his cock, as if you're made perfectly for him.

you sigh happily when he pulls back just a bit to thrust back in to the hilt, when he finally fills you so completely you think you can feel him lodged in your throat, throbbing with desire for you and hot, hot, hot. your eyelids droop with pleasure, watery with your blissful little smile as he pauses right there where you can feel the most of him, just to hold you even closer until you're sure there's not any possible space between you.

and there's nowhere else you'd rather be.

"feels good, love?" your words are heavy, thick with emotion and the overwhelming pleasure you're feeling, nearly slurred together with your adoration for him.

choso nods again, kisses at your cheeks and nose, nips at your pretty lips. when he looks at you again, you think his eyes hold stars in them for you, sparkling in his irises and falling across his cheeks. "s'good, darling, so good." he sounds just as intoxicated as you, raw and vulnerable, and you giggle softly and bring him back to your lips then, swiping tenderly at the skin just below those pretty eyes, at the tiny droplets of diamonds that escape them, at the stark black mark across his face.

"you're so beautiful, choso," you whisper, and his cheeks burn so furiously you wonder how your palms haven't been scorched by them, laughing quietly to yourself at the thought. it seems silly, but you can't be bothered to believe it is, not when he feels so good inside you, so snug and warm and lovely, and he's enveloping you so wholly in his embrace, and his heart beating erratically against your own feels all too much like you're home. safe, blissful.

choso wants to hold you forever. he wants to mold you to himself so that he never has to let you go, doesn't care in the least how irrational it may be, he loves how you feel, how you make him feel, just by being this close. he wants to tell you you're the most beautiful thing he's ever seen, he'll ever see all his life, and if he were to live another millennia, that your eyes may just hold all the answers in the universe - but he chokes on his words when your walls flutter around him, when you claw at his back and wordlessly urge him to start moving.

instead, he whispers, too, a broken, breathless confession, dripping with emotion, "i- i love you."

you gasp, whether from his revelation or the slow roll of his hips he isn't sure, but he is sure you heard him and know how sincere he is, breathing out a stuttered response just as ardently.

choso thinks he loses himself again, in the sweet clasp of your pussy, in your low moans and how your body moves for him, only pulling him closer, until he all but drowns in you, happily.

his pace is unhurried but undeniably deep, balls squishing up against your ass, savoring the tight heat of your walls around him, the sharp, fleeting pain of your nails raking across his back - he loves the sting, is too lost to wonder whether it seems wrong to. the wet sound as he pounds into you, so deep it takes your breath every time, nearly drives him into a frenzy, makes him want to make a bigger mess of the both of you.

he doesn't stray too long from your face, he loves your sultry, blissed out expressions just as much, loves every little reaction you give when he nips and pinches lightly at where he knows you're most sensitive, when the head of his cock hits undeniably deeper, teasing at that spot that drives you wild. he doesn't even pull back far enough to remove the shirt you're still wearing, instead rucking the hem up with rough fingers just so he can lick and suck at your nipples and make your back arch off the mattress.

"so pretty," he murmurs into your skin, almost to himself, but the deep cadence of his voice against you gives him away, makes you shiver. "my love, my love." he repeats it like he can't help himself, carves into you like he's trying to shape your perfect cunt to his dick, like he wants to forget how it feels so he can keep doing it for the first time again and again and again. you all but squeak when his pelvis grinds up against your swollen clit on every downstroke, breath caught in your throat when he licks at your pulse, squeezes at your thighs. he's everywhere, devouring every part of you, it seems, and you couldn't be happier to let him, to trust him so thoroughly with the softest, most vulnerable parts of you.

choso groans so deeply, it vibrates through your entire body, makes you shudder pleasantly. he finds your lips again, swivels his hips a little quicker, and you're panting lightly into his mouth, that little smirk shining through.

"close, baby?" you lick at his lips, fingers tugging at his hair. his pupils are blown charmingly wide, eyelids heavy as he only grunts in response, hips stuttering, cock twitching inside you - you laugh lightly, nibble at his bottom lip. "cum for me, handsome, i wanna feel you."

his next moan is so resonant, it shakes through him - and you by extension. he pulls out until only the flared head of his cock stays inside you, shifts a little higher on the bed, gravity stretching your legs even wider, hips lifting up along with his. when he plunges back in all the way in one smooth thrust, you nearly scream. the angle somehow makes him hit even deeper, the tip of his cock nudging at your cervix. you're mewling, grasping desperately at his shoulders, his biceps flexing with you trapped between them as he drives his cock deep into the sweet clutch of your cunt.

you're rendered speechless by the force of his thrusts, your whole body jostled by it, your insides undoubtedly battered.

the reminder of his silent strength makes you whine a little higher, like wordless praise spilling from your lips.

choso whispers out your name like it pains him, over and over as he chases his high, his dick spasming inside you within just a few more heavy, gut-wrenching thrusts. you reach up to weave your fingers into the roots of his soft hair and tug, back arching, and he gasps, pretty eyes rolling back in his head. in one startlingly deep stroke he's spilling inside you, pumping you full just as he'd promised, wave after wave pulsing into you, the feel of it making your walls clench and squeeze in turn. you whine along with him, hold him as close to you as you can, choso clutching onto you just as desperately, almost as if he's melting into you, until you're molded into one.

he ruts into you lazily until it's too much for him, until he feels raw with oversensitivity. he comes down panting heavily into your sweat-dampened skin, just as you start to languidly chase the sweet grind of the base of his cock against your swollen clit.

you're still stroking his hair, praising him softly, "good boy, so sweet to me," trailing gentle fingers across the planes of his back, almost as if in apology for where your nails had dug bright red lines into.

choso shivers blissfully with the aftershocks of pleasure, with the soft tickle of your fingers on his skin, and he feels insatiable. he presses wet lips onto wherever he can reach, up the line of your neck, your jaw, your pretty lips, and pulls back just for a moment to look at you. just as dazed as he feels, warm and rosy with love, eyes droopy and shiny with it, fluttering along your lashes and in the playful little smile on your lips.

oh, how he adores you.

he kisses you again, licking at your lips and sucking on your pretty pink tongue before drifting back down the way he came, dropping kisses all along your body with reverence. he spends precious time at your chest, finally sliding your shirt off and kneading at your breasts and sucking and nipping at each pert nipple until he's satisfied, until your voice catches in your throat from moaning.

when he has to pull out to continue down further where he truly wants to be, he bites his lip in displeasure at the loss of your warmth. but he's immediately appeased by the view before him, by the lewdness of his seed spilling forth from your hole, the way it leaks out and catches on your folds, the inside of your thighs.

choso almost instinctively slides his fingers through your pussy, scooping up what he can and pushing it back into you, plunging his fingers into your entrance in a futile attempt to keep it in. your fingers tighten almost painfully where they're woven in his hair, and wordlessly, he continues his trail of kisses down your stomach. he's handsome even in the mess of you, in the wreck you've both left of each other, and especially when he's down between your legs.

he presses his lips against your hip, nips at the supple flesh of your thighs.

"darling?" you question breathlessly, but he's so thoroughly lost in you he barely registers it as he suddenly laps at your swollen clit, his fingers still plugged up in the sweet clutch of your cunt.

your reaction is immediate, back arching and voice breaking on his name as he kisses and licks at your sweet pussy. his tongue flicks at your sensitive bud, teeth grazing at the hood of it before his lips wrap around it and he sucks, and you nearly scream his name. your hips start to buck up against his face, and he holds you down with a strong hand splayed across your hip, the other still occupied, fingers now pumping into you.

choso takes his time. his lips are laden with worship, his tongue reverent, gratuitous. he eats you out like he'd rather be doing nothing else for the rest of his life (he thinks that's true), like nothing makes him happier than feeling your walls hug at him, sucking him in so sweetly, your sweet nectar leaking out just for him to swallow up and savor. he licks his release clean from you just to mess you up again, just to make you whine and cry from pure pleasure, tears dripping from your eyes because your body can barely comprehend so much of it.

he hardly realizes it when he's rutting against the bed, hard once more just from eating you out again, his fingers now replaced with his tongue because he wants to taste from you directly, wants to feel it on his tongue when you clench up and cum just because of him.

and he hardly realizes when he cums too, almost instantly after you do, until his vision goes white and he whines against your pussy just as your velvet walls pulse and squeeze around his tongue, your release spilling into his greedy mouth, lips smacking lewdly as he laps it all up through both of your orgasms, filling him just as he'd filled you with his seed.

he loves giving to you, receiving from you. he's so tired of taking, weary of seeing destruction at his own hands.

when he sees the wreck he's made of you, your entire body trembling with the force of what only he can give you, he thinks he's found the measure of his own power.

and when you still reach out for him, kissing him like nothing else matters to you, he knows you have much more of it than he.

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lotusbxtch · 6 months

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SoCal to NorCal - Chapter 1: Malibu

Series Masterlist Series Pairing: husband!Joel Miller x afab!Reader x boyfriend!Frankie Morales Series Summary: Joel is your rock, and Frankie is your ocean. So what happens when you bring the three of you together?

- or -

you and Frankie roadtrip up from Southern California to Northern California so he can meet Joel. A polyamory fic. This series exists in the Triple Frontier universe and is a Joel Miller AU/Triple Frontier AU. Series Rating: Explicit, 18+ only, MDNI

Chapter 1: Malibu

Chapter Pairing: Frankie Morales x afab!Reader x Santiago Garcia

Chapter Summary: You & Frankie visit your friend Santi at his Malibu mansion to kick off your roadtrip north, and you let desires guide the night.

Word Count: 6.9k

Rating: Explicit, 18+ only, MDNI

Chapter Warnings/Tags: polyamory, threesome, multiple partners, MMF dynamics, fingering, oral (f receiving), unprotected P in V (wrap it up pls!), DVP, multiple creampies, explicit talk about cum (is a cum kink a thing? a tag I should use? Pls comment with your thoughts lol), spitting, alcohol consumption, mentions of food, gratuitous descriptions of male and female anatomy, heavy use of Spanish pet names/nicknames, Santi being a menace is his own warning, Frankie the PEK, Frankie has a big dick and so does Santi, Reader is AFAB and uses she/her pronouns, Reader is able-bodied, has breasts, and has hair that can be pulled, otherwise no description of Reader's skin color, size, body shape, hair color, eye color, or ethnicity, no use of y/n. Everyone is testing negative for STDs and Reader is on birth control. a/n: This is my very first series fic! I plan to have 3 chapters including this one. This one was meant to be a fun spicy little intro into the fic, but of course Santi being an absolute menace meant that this is absolute smutty filth and I'm sorry (not sorry). MASSIVE thank you to my sweet @for-a-longlongtime, who not only gave me the iconic Santiago line "guava goes better with pussy and mezcal," but beta read for me, bounced ideas around, and encouraged me when I wasn't sure that I could do this. Without her help, this fic wouldn't be in existence! Dividers by the amazing @saradika-graphics, thank you! (Please note that the chapter graphic is NOT meant to be accurate to Reader — vibes only!)

If you enjoy my writing, please leave a comment, feedback or reblog! It would mean the world to me. Thank you!

“I think that should be everything,” you murmur, closing the back of the forest green Jeep. You card a hand through your hair while going over a mental pack list for the third time this afternoon. Behind you, you feel a soft kiss on your shoulder and warm, strong hands envelop your waist.

“You ready to ride then, sweetness?” asks your boyfriend, Frankie. You smile and lean back into his embrace. “Yeah, I’m really looking forward to this trip,” you say, turning to plant a kiss to his aquiline nose, and then another to his plush lips. You both hop into the car; Frankie navigates towards the coast, while small butterflies dance in the pit of your stomach as you think about how the two of you got here.

You and Frankie Morales met six months ago at the Santa Monica airport. In a bid to encourage team bonding, upper management at your job booked a helicopter tour of the Los Angeles skyline. Frankie was the pilot for your chopper. He charmed your group with his charismatic yet humble demeanor and fun factoids about LA, especially you – your coworkers insisted that he kept staring at you when you weren’t looking. But Frankie ultimately beat you to the punch and asked you out for drinks the following night. You accepted, and the rest is history. The attraction was palpable from the get-go, and Frankie’s go-with-the-flow attitude complimented your fiery personality to a T. You adored how detail-oriented he was in all aspects of his life – memorizing your favorite teas, asking about how your projects were going, knowing exactly how to make you see stars in bed with his fingers, his cock, and especially his tongue. You couldn’t deny that Frankie was the perfect addition to your life, and you to his.

Through those first few weeks, you both divulged the more challenging bits of your lives. Frankie told you about his daughter, Isabella, and how his struggle with cocaine almost ruined his life. His relationship with his ex-wife was strained because of it, but they co-parented well - it was their main goal to ensure that Isabella was never put in the middle of their struggles, that she always felt supported and loved by both of her parents. Frankie had lost his pilot’s license after he failed a random drug test, and he took that as a sign to do the work to fix what was broken. He was now two years sober, and back to flying.

You, in turn, revealed to Frankie that he wasn’t the only man in your life. For the last decade, you’ve been with Joel Miller, your husband of seven years. Joel was the steady compass of your soul, the man whose roots intertwined deeply with those of your heart. You’d loved Joel almost your entire life, having grown up in the same neighborhood, although your crush on him was secretive during your childhood. He was your older brother’s best friend from college, a transplant from Texas whose parents moved to the Bay Area when he was a teenager. You ran into him after getting your master’s degree and moving back to the suburbs of San Francisco, and something sparked between the two of you. Since then, you’d been inseparable. When your work requested that you spend a year going between NorCal and SoCal to establish the new Los Angeles area office, you knew it would be a challenge for your relationship. As it turns out, it was only really a challenge for one reason — your sex drive was incredibly high, and sometimes you were apart from Joel for weeks at a time. Phone and video sex worked as well as it could, but it couldn’t beat the real thing. One night, after a particularly frustrating video sex session — all of your toys ran out of juice and you’d left your charger at home, among other things — Joel surprised you by suggesting that you didn’t need to stay monogamous.

“Are you sure, Joel?” you asked incredulously. “You’ve never been one to particularly like sharing.”

Joel huffed a laugh. “Yes, darlin’,” he replied. “Lord knows the new office ended up bein’ more work than either of us thought it’d be. I know how much ‘gettin’ yours’ can be de-stressin’ for ya, and I don’t wanna be the reason you can’t seek it. It’s not like you’d be askin’ someone to move in with us. If it helps you, it makes me happy. And it sure would give my phone battery and hands some relief.” He chuckled as you scoffed in mock indignation. “You don’t have to tell me anythin’ you don’t want to about whoever you get involved with. As long as you’re stayin’ safe and they’re treatin’ you as well as I do, then I’m okay with it.”

You sighed in consideration. “Let me think about it some more,” you said, picking at your rental’s bedspread. “It’s not something I’m going to take lightly.”

And then two weeks later, you met Frankie. Frankie was surprisingly relaxed when you told him about Joel, albeit surprised. He’d hesitated to continue things until you got on the phone with Joel and had him tell Frankie himself. After all, you’d checked with Joel within a few days of meeting Frankie just to make sure Joel was still okay with you being with another man.

You made sure to tell Joel when you’d be seeing Frankie, and Frankie didn’t contact you when you were back home with Joel. It wasn’t that either man wanted to pretend the other didn’t exist; rather, they each wanted to respect the other man’s time with you. Frankie wasn’t seeking marriage or starting a family; he wanted to continue using his time and energy on Isabella and getting his career back on track. And Joel was confident in and comfortable with your marriage in a way that didn’t allow for unseemly jealousy to crop up.

Gradually you told each of them bits about the other one, until one day Joel suggested that the two of them meet. You were game, but wanted to run it by Frankie first.

“He wants to meet me?” Frankie asked, wringing his hands a bit and looking mildly surprised. The two of you had just finished dinner at one of your favorite taco trucks in LA, and you licked the tips of your fingers as you finished your last al pastor taco, the warm, savory spices dancing on your tongue. Frankie took a sip from his Mexican Coke, his plush lips wrapping around the cool aqua glass of the bottle.

You nod your head in affirmation. “Just for a couple of days. We could make a vacation out of it. Joel suggested maybe we road trip up the coast.”

Frankie looked pensive. You don’t blame him, especially when the two men had made a concerted effort to keep their relationships with you separate. “You’re sure you want to do this?” Frankie asked, searching your eyes for any hesitation. You studied those dark chocolate irises, so similar to Joel’s.

“Yes, Francisco,” you confirmed, reaching out across the plastic picnic table to touch his hand. The sounds of the city wrapped around you as the two of you gazed at each other. “Joel has my heart, but so do you. And I want both parts of my heart, my favorites, to be with me at the same time for once.”

“Ok, mi amor, let’s go then,” Frankie said resolutely, bringing up your hand to his lips, pressing a soft kiss to your skin.

Your thoughts bring you back to the present, with Frankie’s one-hand grip on the steering wheel and the warm coastal sun beaming through the windshield. The windows are down, allowing the salty sea air to filter through the Jeep. He flips on his turn signal and begins driving through a particularly posh part of Malibu. Giant mansions dwarf the street, pristine lawns and modern, open-glass architecture rolling by as you continue on. You let out a low whistle.

“Jesus Christ, what the hell does Santi do again to afford this?” you ask Frankie, eyes flicking to and from each house you pass by.

“Nothing,” Frankie chuckles. “When we got the money from that final mission that Santi and I went on, he invested the entirety of his share into the stock market. Well, almost everything.” He snorts at the champagne Range Rover in Santi’s driveway as the two of you pull up. Frankie, on the other hand, put the majority of his earnings into a trust fund for Isabella. The rest he used to set himself up comfortably but modestly. “Santi still does some consultant work for private security firms, but he just keeps reinvesting the money and using it to buy property and fund charity work,” Frankie explains.

“Can’t say I blame him, it’s a pretty solid strategy,” you respond, taking in the splendor of Santi’s Malibu abode as Frankie parks his Jeep. The three-story home is minimalist and modern on the exterior, with a combination of cool beige stone and warm wood paneling. No other houses are on either side of the building, so the property is ulta-private, and even has its own beach. As the two of you unpack your bags from the car, you hear a wolf whistle shriek from somewhere around the corner. Jumping slightly, you turn and then smile as Santiago Garcia strolls barefoot out of the house, his pale linen slacks and caramel vintage ribbed polo shirt fluttering lightly against his muscular frame in the sea breeze.

“Hey pendejo, you finally made it!” Santi yells to Frankie, then turns to you with a “hi, hermosa,” and a kiss to your cheek. You wrap your arms around Santi’s torso, inhaling his sandalwood and cinnamon scent and giggling a hello. Frankie walks up, bags in hand, and tries to ruffle Santi’s perfectly coiffed curls. Santi dodges him and then goes in for a bear hug; Frankie smiles broadly as they rock side to side before clapping each other on the back.

“Good to see you, hermano, and thanks for letting us stay with you,” Frankie says warmly as he picks up your luggage and the three of you head towards the house.

“Not a problem, I’m in town for a consulting gig and figured it’d been awhile since we’d gotten together,” Santi responds ahead of you. You and Frankie follow him into the open-concept common area, admiring the sleek countertops, stainless steel fixtures, and plush yet subdued furniture. Light neutrals rule the color palette, with plenty of floor-to-ceiling windows to allow natural light in. You run your hand over the back of a velvet lounger, indulging in the texture against your fingertips. Frankie goes to the bedroom to drop off your luggage, while Santi starts pulling things out in the kitchen for dinner prep. Continuing towards the back of the house, you push open the sliding glass doors, letting fresh air in while you admire the view from the balcony. Below, the azure waves caress the sand gently, and the sound of the ocean encourages you to release all the stress from the last workweek.

The boys get going on dinner as you slip on a silky emerald green dress - opting to go braless and barefoot - and dab on some rosy lip stain. The dress drapes lushly over your body, making it both comfortable and beautiful. After spritzing on some of your favorite perfume and putting on thin gold hoop earrings, you emerge from the guest bedroom you and Frankie are sharing for the weekend. Santi looks up and hums in approval.

“Damn, bebita, you look delicious,” he purrs as he finishes seasoning the steaks. “Do you always dress up for dinner with this chump or did you get pretty just for me? It’s okay, you can tell the truth.”

You roll your eyes at his cockiness and chuckle as you squeeze his bicep in passing. “Santi, don’t flatter yourself,” you retort, “I did it for myself. I don’t need to dress up for him to want to devour me.” You cross the kitchen to Frankie, who’s working on the caprese salad. Frankie huffs a laugh and puts down the kitchen knife, wiping his hands on a towel before to circling his hands around your waist. You lean into him, pressing a chaste kiss to his lips.

“That’s right,” he shoots back to Santi without looking over, “she doesn’t need extra dressing up; she’s stunning enough as she is.” He kisses your forehead softly as you gaze up at him lovingly.

“You’re right.” Santi lets his gaze scan over you approvingly. “She probably looks even better with nothing on.”

“Santiago!” you laugh. “You’re such an insufferable flirt.” You walk back over to the opposite side of the kitchen island from him, fixing him with a smoldering smirk. “Wouldn’t you like to know, hmm?” Santi has always been relentlessly flirtatious with every attractive woman he meets, including you. Frankie’s never bothered by his antics, but you see his eyes flick towards the two of you, anticipating his response.

“Don’t tease me with promises you won’t keep, sweetheart,” Santi warns you, voice like rich caramel, sweet and smooth. You hold each other’s gazes for a moment before you break away, laughing softly and successfully ruffling his hair like Frankie wanted to earlier. That distracts Santi from the moment, as he huffs and runs his fingers through his curls to fix them.

A few hours later, the three of you are relaxing on the balcony by the fire pit after dinner, drinking mezcal margaritas and catching up on life. You sit with your legs across the cream patio sofa, your back against Frankie’s side like you often do with him. His arm is draped possessively across your torso while his thumb rubs absentmindedly back and forth across your shoulder. Santi goes inside to fetch the mezcal bottle from the kitchen, having switched to just the liquor, and you stand from the couch to observe the beach at the balcony’s railing. The darkness of night has settled over the landscape, lending deep navies and turquoise hues to the water, and everything feels more hushed.

As you inhale the coastal breeze, you feel Frankie’s warm body press into you from behind, and then his soft lips pressing a trail of kisses over your shoulder and neck. You hum happily, smelling his rosemary cedar soap on his skin, and press yourself further into him, lightly grinding against his hips. Frankie lets out a quiet groan and presses right back into you, letting you feel his hardening length against your ass. He begins to cup your breasts through the silken fabric of your dress, easily pebbling your nipples with no bra between his fingers and your tits. The heat of arousal starts to pool low in your belly as Frankie slides his hands down to your hips, grinding on you until he’s fully hard beneath his pants. You tilt your head back, closing your eyes, and turn to the side to catch his lips, biting on his lower one and eliciting a louder groan from him.

“Sweetness, I need you so badly,” Frankie whispers into your ear. When you quietly moan in response, you can feel Frankie’s hands slip down the silk over your ass and hear him shuffle behind you. Spinning around and opening your eyes, you see him on his knees, hat next to him on the floor, starting to ruck up your dress.

“Frankie,” you hiss, grabbing his hands, desperate for more but concerned. “What if Santi sees?”

“What if I want to watch?” you hear suddenly over Frankie’s shoulder, and you gasp when you look behind him and realize Santi is leaning against the open balcony door, sipping mezcal straight from the bottle. A fire ripples from the base of your spine upwards, and your gaze drops to Frankie, whose eyes have gone nearly black with desire but remain on you. Your lips pop open slightly, and you freeze.

“Well, querida, answer the man,” Frankie rasps. “Either you let him watch or make him go back inside, but either way, I’m eating this sweet pussy.” His hands slowly drag up your legs until he’s cupping your ass, squeezing the soft flesh, which rips a moan from your throat. As Frankie’s lips trail up and down your legs, you look back up at Santi, trying to read his expression. Gone is the molten chocolate of his irises; instead, you see glimmering adamant, dark and deep like the desire painted over every line of his face. But that heated gaze is still respectful – you know Santi would never cross your boundaries. If you truly didn’t want him to watch, he’d go inside the house, no questions asked.

It’s for that exact reason that your desire thrums through you like a bass line, and you bite your lip. “Frankie, I need your mouth on me right now. I think Santi needs to see how hard you make me come.”

Frankie responds with a groan, while Santi lets out a deep purring sound. He moves to the couch, sitting with his legs spread, and takes another swig of mezcal as he takes in the sight before him. Frankie immediately yanks your soft lace panties down your thighs, and growls at the gossamer-thin string of arousal that connects your weeping center with your underwear.

“Fuuuuck, querida, you’re fucking soaked,” Frankie moans, inhaling the intoxicating scent near your glossy slit. You step out of your panties, and he grabs them, tossing them to Santi. The man on the couch catches them with one hand, bringing them immediately to his nose and sniffing deeply.

“Goddamn,” Santi grits out, “she smells so fucking good, hermano.” He brings the gusset of the lace garment to his mouth, gingerly licking the slick off, groaning at the taste. You gasp at the sight, a wave of wetness trickling down your channel. “Tastes amazing too,” he adds, leaning back into the couch cushions and stuffing your panties into his pocket.

Frankie pushes your dress up to your waist and moves your left thigh to rest on his shoulder, spreading you open. He splays your lips open with his thumbs, staring at your pussy glistening in the fire’s light, on display for both him and Santi. He licks a steady strip from the bottom to the top, swirling around your clit at the end. You moan loudly, leaning back against the railing for support.

“Oh bebita, listen to those sweet sounds you’re making for Frankie,” Santi croons from the couch. “He must be making that pussy feel so good.”

“Yes, Santi,” you gasp, swallowing thickly as your eyes close in pleasure. “He’s so fucking good with his tongue.” You hear Santi rumble deep in his chest in response.

Frankie begins licking, sucking, and tapping on your clit exactly like he knows you like it, gripping your cheeks with both hands and massaging them. You writhe against his face, rocketing faster towards your impending orgasm. When you look up, you see Santi palming his cock through his pants, the bulge straining against the linen. Your cunt clenches at the image before you. Frankie can tell you’re close, so he slips two of his fingers into his mouth momentarily to slick them up and then plunges them into your warm cunt. You throw your head back, nearly screaming in ecstasy. Your grip tightens on the railing.

“I know you’re close, querida,” Frankie growls. “Let Santi see how pretty you look when you come.” Frankie then hooks his fingers just right inside of you and hits that soft spot that sends you into orbit, squealing. You feel everything tighten and then release, your orgasm rippling through your core and into your extremities. Frankie and Santi both moan at the sights and sounds of you reaching your peak, Frankie lapping up every drop of release from you.

“Good fucking girl, mamacita,” Santi says, getting up from the couch and stalking towards the both of you. Frankie gets off of his knees, easing your leg off his shoulder while wiping a hand across his drenched mouth. He knows exactly what Santi wants, so he moves back a couple of steps. You almost stumble, legs like jelly, and Santi catches your waist.

He tilts your chin up to meet his eyes, and his assessing gaze breaks through the post-orgasm haze you’re in. “I really want to taste that perfect cunt, baby,” Santi whispers. “Can I do that for you?” You look at him, hesitating for a moment only because this is a line you’ve not crossed with Santi before. You nod clearly at him. Santi shakes his head. “Words, sweetheart.”

“Yes, Santi,” you breathe. “Please put your mouth on me.” Santi groans in anticipation and starts walking backwards, pulling you with him. When you look at him in slight confusion, a sheepish smile passes briefly over his lips.

“Bad knees,” he reminds you, and you laugh. “Kneeling on concrete would kill me.” He tilts his chin to Frankie. “Fish, open the door to the bedroom. I’m gonna lay her down. And bring the bottle.” Frankie obliges, sliding open the other glass door to the expansive bedroom and grabbing the mezcal bottle.

“Can I kiss you?” he whispers. You sigh a yes, and Santi kisses you softly at first, then deeper. He tastes like cinnamon, tropical fruits, and smoky liquor. Moaning quietly, you start to lose yourself in his kiss as he moves the both of you backwards into the bedroom.

The California king size bed is draped in soft taupes and creams, the bedding a gauzy cotton that feels incredible on your skin as Santi gently lays you on it. He pulls your dress up your body, and you arch your back to help him remove it over your head. As your bare body is exposed to him, glowing in the low light, he sucks in a breath. Frankie places the mezcal bottle on the bedside table, then strips out of everything except his black boxer briefs, his length fully hard against his left thigh, and sits down on a sleek chaise lounger in the corner, watching you and Santi.

Santi strips off his shirt and then climbs onto the bed over you, slowly sliding his hands over your soft skin as he goes. You shift on the bed at his touch, back arching a bit and thighs rubbing together. He keeps his eyes locked with yours as he reaches your head, forearms bracketing either side of your face. His body is so close to yours yet not touching.

Moaning, you tangle your fingers in his salt and pepper curls and pull briefly. Santi bites your lower lip in response with a small growl. Sitting up, he grabs the mezcal off the bedside table.

“Open,” he commands, taking a swig from the glass bottle. You obey, and Santi leans over your open mouth and fucking spits the mezcal into it. You swallow, moaning at the taste, the alcohol and him. He kisses you roughly, licking into your mouth, and you whimper, your legs dropping open of their own accord.

Santi notices and chuckles darkly. “Oh, you liked that, huh?” he purrs. “Dirty girl.” He kisses and nips along your ear and neck, across your collarbone, and down your chest. Reaching your nipples, he swirls his tongue around and then gently nips each of them. You feel slick pooling at your entrance, starting to drip down your inner thighs. Santi traces his tongue down your belly and to the curls above your pussy, inhaling deeply. He pushes your thighs open further and groans at the sight.

“Goddamn, you’re drenched,” he grits out, shuffling down to put his face at your center. You glance over at Frankie in the corner, and notice he has his cock out, slowly stroking the length. You whimper at the sight and Frankie licks his lips. You feel a sudden pinch at your inner thigh and whip your head back to the man between your legs.

“Eyes on me, hermosa,” Santi orders. “I want you to look right at me when I eat this pretty pussy.” And with that, he dives in.

Santi is a messier lover than Frankie, who usually eats you out with absolute precision, priding himself with knowing exactly how to make you come as fast as possible, and repeat the process until you’re crying out from overstimulation. Santi, however, is licking at you like he wants to drown himself in your cunt. His tongue is everywhere, licking broad stripes across your slit, sucking on your lips and clit, biting at your thighs, shoving his tongue deep into your channel.

“So fucking sweet,” Santi pants out in a daze, separating his mouth from your sopping cunt for just a moment, and then goes back in for more. You mewl and grip the bed sheets as he continues to ravage you.

Your moans of pleasure stir something in Frankie, who gets up from his seat and walks over to the bed, his need to touch you nearly insatiable.

“Frankie,” you whine as you see him, your eyes hazy with lust, reaching out to him.

“I’m right here, querida,” he reassures you, then gets onto the bed, placing himself behind you. You scooch up the bed so that you’re sitting in between his spread legs, your back to his bare chest. You can feel his hard length against you, silken and hot, his precum smearing slick against your skin. Frankie kisses your forehead, then leans forward and grabs your legs behind the knees, pulling back and spreading you impossibly wider for Santi. The man between your thighs groans, slipping two fingers into you, making your back arch even more.

“Does our little slut like to be spread out? Do you like Frankie holding your legs open for me, bebita?” Santi growls, pumping his fingers in and out of you. You cry out at his words, throwing your head back against Frankie’s shoulder. One of your hands grabs Frankie’s thigh, and the other one grips Santi’s hair once again.

“Yes,” you respond, pushing his head back towards your dripping slit. “Lick my pussy like you mean it, Santi.” He groans deep in his chest and dives back in, and you feel Frankie bite the junction between your neck and shoulder in arousal. Santi continues pumping his fingers into you as he sucks your clit between his lips, swirling his tongue over it in tiny circles. You feel your orgasm begin to rise in your lower belly, intensifying with each thrust and lick. Santi feels your slick walls bear down on his fingers.

“That’s it, honey, I know you want to come for me,” Santi says.

“Give it to us,” Frankie whispers in your ear. “Come for me and Santi.”

Frankie’s command is all it takes to snap the tether in your core, shattering you into pieces as the pleasure courses hot through your body. You scream their names as your pussy gushes wave after wave of slick, running down your thighs and Santi’s fingers, into his waiting mouth, licking and slurping obscenely, his fingers continuing to press into your g-spot to prolong your high.

“God, I need to be inside you right fucking now,” Santi grits out, pussydrunk. He stands up and hurriedly shoves his pants and boxers down his legs, his thick cock springing free and bobbing slightly. You feel your mouth water; his dick is just as gorgeous as Frankie’s.

Santi meets your eyes once again. “Do you want me to fuck you while Frankie holds you open, sweetheart?” Santi asks you. You pause, your pleasure-addled mind narrowing in on one idea – having them both.

“I want you both,” you moan. Santi’s eyes widen a bit and then dart to Frankie. They share a smirk and then Frankie turns to you in his lap.

“Querida, how do you want us?” Frankie inquires. “One at a time or at the same time?”

“At the same time,” you whimper. “I want you both in my pussy.”

Santi and Frankie groan in unison. Santi smiles wickedly, looking at Frankie. “Well, it wouldn’t be the first time, eh?”

“Just like we used to,” Frankie chuckles darkly, and your fuzzy mind tucks away their exchange for later. “We have to get her ready, then.” He slowly releases your knees and turns to you, kissing the side of your face and lightly nibbling your ear. He grabs your chin gently with his fingers, turning your head sideways to meet his eyes. “We’re going to work you open first, okay, baby?” he intones softly. You nod your head yes. Santi and Frankie’s eyes meet, and Santi opens the bedside table drawer, grabbing a bottle of lube and tossing it to Frankie.

He catches it, reading the label. “Guava?” Frankie asks quizzically. “What happened to the mango-pineapple one?”

Santi shrugs. “I still have it,” he explains, “but guava goes better with pussy and mezcal.” You huff a laugh and Frankie smiles, kissing your forehead again and sweeping your hair out of your face.

“Guess we have an edible lube connoisseur here,” jokes Frankie, opening the cap and pouring some of the slick liquid onto his thick digits.

The sweet, juicy fruit scent wafts through the air, and Santi grabs the bottle from him, doing the same while shaking his head incredulously.“It’s not my fault that you have no sense of refinement,” he retorts. Frankie just rolls his eyes and turns back to you.

“Are you ready, sweetness?” Frankie murmurs. You nod your head and breathe out a “yes, baby”. Frankie reaches in front of himself and slips his two lubed fingers into you, and you whimper softly. Santi follows suit, slipping two of his fingers into you next, kneeling between your legs. You feel stretched full but so turned on. They allow you a few moments to adjust, and when you nod your head, they begin swirling their fingers in opposite directions. A moan rips from your throat and you grab at the bedsheets. They continue swirling and pressing their fingers in and out, and the sight of your pussy filled with their fingers gets the both of them rock hard.

The cloud of euphoria in your head is all-consuming as they continue, your arousal reaching an almost painful peak. Suddenly you grab their wrists and both men stop immediately, concern crossing their faces. “Are you okay, bebita?” Frankie asks, his brows furrowing.

You nod your head rapidly, and then bleat out, “I need you both inside me right now.” Santi and Frankie grin at your fucked out expression, looking at each other conspiratorially.

“Well, you heard the lady, Pope,” Frankie says. “Let’s give her what she wants.” He shifts you forward as he moves to the side, pulling his underwear all the way off. He lays on his back on the bed, his hard cock against his stomach dripping pre-cum. “I want you to ride me, hermosa, and then Santi is going to enter you from behind as you lean forward,” Frankie explains.

You nod your head in understanding and straddle his thighs, facing him. Frankie hands you the lube bottle. You dribble a stream onto his waiting thickness, and he hisses as the cool liquid hits his hot velvet skin. Grabbing his slick length, you shuffle forward and guide him into your channel, whining when he bottoms out easily. Frankie reaches up and grips your hips, guiding you to ride him.

After a minute, he looks over your shoulder at Santi, who is slowly stroking his dick. “I think she’s ready, Fish,” Santi says, and Frankie nods once. Santi gets on the bed, coming to his knees behind you and grabbing your hips. Frankie slides his hands to your back, gently pulling you towards him until you’re leaning forward, laying chest to chest, your pussy on full display for Santi, stuffed with Frankie’s cock. You hear Santi groan behind you at the sight.

“I can’t believe you’re letting me do this, bebita,” Santi admits as he slicks up his hardness with the lube. “Been thinking about being inside this pussy for months.”

“Well, now’s your chance,” you tease, looking back at him. “Better hurry before the offer expires.” Santi smirks at you as he places his hands on your hips.

The moment you feel the head of Santi’s cock slide into your pussy, you gasp as the sting of the stretch hits you. You hear Santi behind you grit out a quiet “fuck”. Slowly he continues sinking into your hot, wet heat. Reaching forward, he circles your throbbing clit softly, making you whine but relax, allowing him to slip deeper into you, inch by inch. Your pussy twitches and both Santi and Frankie choke on moans.

When he fills you as far as you can take both of them, the three of you hold still. As the seconds pass, the sting gives way as you adjust to being this full. The result is rolling waves of lightning sparking through your veins with each minute movement inside of you. You let out a high-pitched whine as a knot of white-hot pleasure tightens in your core.

“Mierda, bebita,” Frankie moaned, “are you gonna come just from both of us being in you?”

“God, she feels so fucking good,” Santi murmurs, almost to himself. Both of them are gripping you tightly as you continue to whimper and whine, your high quickly building. Your breathing intensifies, and you start to shake.

It’s so much, being so full of them physically, and the thought of them both in you - two of the most attractive, sexy men you know - is nearly making you lose your mind. But you don’t want to come before your boys have even gotten to move. It almost feels like a weakness, being this fucked out for them.

“It’s ok, sweetness, let go,” says Frankie softly, realizing you’re holding off for them. He presses a kiss to your neck and it’s your undoing.

The brush of his lips against that sensitive spot right under your ear pushes you off the edge and you wail, your pleasure cresting as you jerk under their firm grips. They moan loudly, your pleasure stoking theirs. The three of you catch your breaths as you come down from your high.

Frankie looks up at you, eyes pitch black, swimming with devotion for you. Santi strokes your hips gently, his strong hands shaking slightly.

“How are you feeling?” Frankie asks you sweetly, rubbing his hands across your back, his thighs clenching from holding back.

You take a shaky breath. “So fucking full,” you respond, and then giggle softly at your obvious observation. The boys laugh too, and then moan slightly as your bodies shift. Santi squeezes your hips and asks, “Are you ready for us to move, hermosa?” Your head is swimming in endorphins as you whimper out, “Yes, Santi. I need both of you to fuck me now.”

With that, the two men lock eyes and nod, beginning an apparently practiced dance of their cocks. As Frankie slides himself out, Santi pushes in, and then they reverse roles. You cry out in ecstasy. It’s so much more than you could have ever imagined.

Frankie and Santi start off with slow, shallow thrusts in and out, gradually stretching you around their lengths. When Frankie hits a particularly sweet spot, you moan fervently and more slick coats them, making them both moan back in response. The friction between their cocks and your walls is delicious.

“Fuck, bebita, you look incredible taking the both of us,” Santi says, gripping your hips harder, a sheen of sweat glimmering across his body.

Frankie hums in agreement. “You’re doing so well, baby,” he praises. You preen at their words, arching your back to change the angle. Santi whimpers and kisses along your spine, worshiping your body. The room is thick with the smell of sex, guava, and mezcal, the squelching sounds of your pussy weaving between all three of your moans and cries of pleasure.

The boys begin to speed up the wetter you get, starting to fuck into you with vigor. You feel like your whole body is vibrating. Leaning down to kiss Frankie changes the angle once again, and Santi lets out yet another whimper as you slide your tongue along Frankie’s.

“Fuck, baby, just like that, that’s perfect,” he gasps, getting even harder inside of you. He starts to rub your clit in tight circles, making you yelp. “I want you to come one more time for us before we fill you up,” he continues. “Gonna make your pussy milk our cocks. C’mon, honey, you’ve got one more in you, I can feel it.”

“I don’t know,” you whimper. “I - it’s so much…”

Frankie lets out a growl. “Oh, querida, I know you can come for us one more time,” he says. “Just think about how full of cock you are right now.”

He’s right. The psychological thrill of having both men inside of you is the push you need. You start to shake again, everything tensing up. Both men moan as your channel pulls tight.

Santi leans down to your ear, still thumbing your clit. “Fucking come for us. That’s an order.”

You scream so loudly when your fourth orgasm hits you, that you’re grateful that Santi has no neighbors - because they definitely would have called the cops by now. Tears leak down your face from the intensity, and Santi whimpers loudly as he thrusts in and comes deep in you, his hot seed coating your walls. The tightness of your pussy and Santi shoving deep end up pushing Frankie’s cock out, but he couldn’t care less.

When Santi’s strokes slow and then stop, indicating he’s finished, Frankie pushes him off of you, and roughly flips you over onto your back. He shoves your legs apart, and pushes his dick harshly into you. Boneless, you lay there, moaning and taking it, unable to say anything coherent except for Frankie’s name. Your boyfriend presses your legs even further towards your shoulders, nearly bending you in half as he fucks into you hard and fast, Santi’s cum forced out of you with every snap of Frankie’s hips.

“God, you look like such a goddess right now,” Frankie babbles, nearly snarling, “so full of cum. You like that? You want me to fill you up good? You’re gonna be leaking our cum for days, querida.”

“Yes, Frankie, yes,” you moan, “please fill me up. I love your cum in me. I wanna be so full of both of you.”

With a shout, Frankie bares his teeth and comes, getting as deep as possible and filling up your cunt just like he promised. You feel his cum thick and hot in you, triggering another moan.

Frankie drops your knees back down to the bed, nearly collapsing down against your chest while the two of you pant heavily, trying to catch your breaths. Looking over, you spot Santi sitting up at the corner of the bed, looking disheveled but utterly sated, his now-soft cock still shiny with lube and your combined releases.

You reach your hand out to him, and he crawls towards you, slotting himself next to one side, while Frankie hisses as he pulls out of you and lays next to you on your other side. He smothers your neck and face with kisses, and you giggle, feeling Santi pepper kisses across the top of your head and stroking the underside of your breast affectionately with his thumb.

You let out a contented sigh. “Wow, that was…”

Frankie hums out an “incredible” at the exact same time Santi rumbles a “so fucking good” to complete your statement, which makes the three of you laugh. Giggles subsiding, something they said in the heat of the moment suddenly pops into your mind.

“Wait a second,” you say as you sit up. Both men lazily look up at you, faces blissed out, waiting for your question. “Frankie, you said, ‘just like old times’... How many times have you double teamed with Santi?”

The two of them look at each other with nearly identical smirks. Santi pipes up first. “Well, back in our Army grunt days,” he explains, “when we’d go on leave together, we kind of had this habit of teaming up to pick up women.” Your jaw drops slightly, and Santi looks amused at your shock.

“It was a fairly effective strategy,” Frankie continues. “Trying to land a girl alone was a crapshoot. But with the both of us offering her a night to remember?” Frankie huffs. “It seemed like fantasy fulfillment for almost every woman we fucked together.”

Your eyes rake over the two of them, gloriously naked and handsome as ever, in bed with you. Yeah, you can see the appeal.

“Okay, but who came up with the idea?” You ask, then immediately put up a hand into the air. “WAIT, no, I know exactly who… Santi, you slut!”

Frankie lets out a loud bark of a laugh as Santi rolls his eyes, folding his arms over his chest, annoyed.

“Hey, don’t act like you didn’t benefit from it, idiota!” Santi grumbles. Frankie reaches over, finally successfully ruffling Santi’s hair. Santi flinches and bats Frankie’s hand away, making you shake with laughter as you lounge in the post-coital haze with your boyfriend and his best friend. You don’t blame those women they slept with one bit. This was a night you will surely remember.

No pressure tags: @mermaidgirl30 @legendary-pink-dot @nerdieforpedro @mountainsandmayhem @arcanefox207 @campingwiththecharmings @exquisit3corpse @gutsby @honeyedmiller @lavendertales @lu62 @luxurychristmaspudding @ozarkthedog @qveerthe0ry @swiftispunk @sheepdogchick3 @thatshortgirlwithglasses @wannab-urs @musings-of-a-rose

#joel miller #frankie morales #santiago garcia #pedro pascal #oscar isaac #joel miller x f!reader x frankie morales #joel miller x f!reader x santiago garcia #joel miller smut #frankie morales smut #santiago garcia smut #triple frontier fanfiction #the last of us fanfiction #joel miller au #joel miller fanfiction #frankie morales fanfiction #santiago garcia fanfiction

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doscharolastras · 3 months

Text

Title: A Fine Romance (Marcus Pike x f!Reader)

Rating: Explicit

Word count: 2735

Warnings: Established, long-term relationship; no age gap; strong language; semi-public sex; oral sex (female-receiving); unprotected PiV sex; Reader identifies as female and has female anatomy but is undescribed otherwise; Reader has no name — Marcus and others call her by pet names (i.e.: “Songbird”, “my girl”); gratuitous use of Bruce Springsteen lyrics.

Notes: Part of the @pedgito / @chaotic-mystery / @amanitacowboy Summer Of Love challenge! I was given Marcus Pike at a concert and the moodboard above. This was not anywhere near the story I set out to write, but it’s the story that wanted to be told. I hope everyone enjoys.

Dedicated to @ladamedusoif, my beta, my lifeline (sometimes literally), and one of the best friends a girl could ask for… Thank you. 💜

(Dividers by @saradika-graphics)

You’re nervous.

You’re used to the feeling, and usually, it passes pretty fast. Once the lights hit your face and the mic’s in your grasp, it all fades and there’s nothing but you and the music and the crowd singing your lyrics back.

Maybe it’s because it’s a festival — your first one ever. You’re far more accustomed to dark little bars or the smaller concert venues you’ve recently graduated to. So this? This wide-open field with its hundreds of thousands of faces and unknowable reach thanks to a free online livestream?

This makes you nervous.

“Hey.” Marcus’ voice is clear even over the din of the crowd. “You alright?”

You turn to meet his deep brown eyes, shining with excitement for you. “Just a little shaky.”

His smile widens and his broad hand falls to your lower back. “You’re gonna be amazing, Songbird.” Just the sound of your nickname slows your heart rate a little. “And,” he leans in and kisses you softly, his lips dragging on yours a little longer than necessary. “I can’t wait to celebrate your success afterward.”

You feel the heat in your face though you’re sure no one heard Marcus’ entendre. Swatting gently at his arm even as you wink, you pull back. “Where will you be?”

“There’s a little family section in the pit. On your left from centerstage. I’ll be right there.” He presses another kiss to your cheek as one of the stagehands waves to you, your signal that you’re about to go on. “Love you,” he murmurs, catching your fingers and squeezing them. “Go kick some ass.”

“I love you, too,” you reply as he hurries away.

“You ready?” Dante Robbins has been your guitarist since the days of playing on the street outside the bars.

“Mm. Let’s do it.”

Your traditional pre-show handclaps are half-hearted, and you wonder if maybe Dante is just as nervous as you. But when the MC announces your set and you bounce onto the stage, things start to feel much more familiar.

“Thank you, New York!”

Dante’s nimble fingers slip into your über-popular cover of Bruce Springsteen’s “Rosalita”, the festival’s backing band picking up immediately, and your gaze surreptitiously slips down to find Marcus in the exact spot he’d said.

“Spread out now, Rosie, doctor come cut loose her mama’s reins You know playin’ blind man's bluff is a little baby’s game You pick up Little Dynamite, I’m gonna pick up Little Gun And together we’re gonna go out tonight and make that highway run You don’t have to call me lieutenant, Rosie, and I don’t want to be your son The only lover I’m ever gonna need’s your soft sweet little girl’s tongue Ah, Rosie, you’re the one…”

As you dance and sing across the stage, your nerves all but abated, you catch Marcus again, bouncing and clapping like your very own Courteney Cox. He’s got such a smile on his face you can’t help but grin back, almost wishing you could pull him up to dance beside you.

“Rosalita, jump a little lighter Señorita, come sit by my fire I just want to be your lover, ain't no liar Rosalita, you're my stone desire…”

Your set consists of six songs, and you close it out with your first single, “Stone Desire” (which calls right back to “Rosalita” and, you think, is a perfect circle). The roar of the crowd is beyond deafening as you hurry off stage, and in the excitement, you realize — Dante isn’t with you. In fact, he’s been more than absent since you first got up on stage.

“Dante?” you call. You try to think — nothing unusual had happened since that morning. You’d done your little rehearsal in your hotel room while Marcus showered; you’d driven over together in the trailer bus…

And yet, since you’d gotten to the festival grounds, he’d been distant. The cold way he started the gig. The enthusiastic high-fives that had been your signature since the early days had been lacking. He didn’t even respond normally to the way you chatted and introduced him between songs.

What did I do? you think. Our biggest chance yet and he’s…

You step past the little curtains that separate the wings of the stage from the outside world, and stop dead in your tracks.

Dante is standing right there, acoustic guitar now strapped over his shoulder. You recognize the song he’s playing — Peter Frampton’s quintessential “Show Me The Way” — but it’s truly just background noise to the other thing happening…

Marcus, on one knee, holding up a simple diamond solitaire.

“I know you probably think I’m insane,” he says, his voice soft but strong. “But I’ve wanted to do this for so long and I just… Today felt like the right day. This feels like the right moment.” His eyes hold yours as you take slow, tentative steps towards him. “I want to be there for you every single time you sing, sweetheart. Your own personal fanclub — on and off that stage.” He reaches out and takes your fingers lightly in his free hand. “Will you marry me?”

You feel the grass under your knees before you even realize you’ve dropped down to meet him. “Oh, Marcus,” you murmur, your fingers grazing up over his stubbled cheek. You feel tears on your face and your smile doesn’t feel like it will ever falter. “Yes. Of course, yes.”

Dante’s soft guitar is all you hear as Marcus slips the little band over your finger and pulls you in for a kiss, his tongue parting your lips as his hand curls around the back of your neck. “Oh, I love you,” he whispers into your mouth.

“I love you,” you reply, the salt of your tears and his delicious taste mixing between you. You’re sure people can see you, that your little moment isn’t private in any way, but you just don’t care. The only thing that matters is the beautiful man wrapped in your arms.

The kisses are only broken when a thought hits you. “Wait, wait.” You push back, your palms pressed against Marcus’ shoulders. Marcus holds you, his face colored with concern. “Dante?”

You look up at him, and he smiles a little, shrugging, his long hair bunching against his shoulders. “Sorry.”

“Marcus,” you say slowly. “Dante knew this whole time?”

“I didn’t know who else to trust,” he replies, grinning. “Figured he was a good choice.”

“Wish it was anyone else,” Dante interjects. “I can’t keep a secret for shit.”

“I thought you were mad at me!” you cry. “You were so out of it!”

“Tell your fiancé not to make me lie to you!”

“A secret is not a lie, Dante.”

Guitar long since swung around his back, Dante folded his arms over his chest. “And that’s why you’re a government agent and I’m a damn musician,” he laughs. Leaning over, he presses a kiss to the top of your head. “Congratulations, babe. And you.” He points a finger in Marcus’ face. “Be good to my girl.”

Marcus salutes. “I will. I promise.”

With that, Dante is gone, and you and Marcus are alone — still kneeling in the grass, your new ring glinting against his shoulder in the sunlight. “C’mon, let’s get out of here.”

After a quick food truck meal and a couple of beers — interspersed with a handful of folks coming up to you for photos and autographs — Marcus holds your hand as you make your way back to the trailer. There’s a DJ on stage now, filling time between the late afternoon sets and the big time evening performers, and you hear your “Rosalita” remixed into an upbeat Mexican cumbia rhythm.

You laugh, but Marcus takes a different approach, pulling you in to dance with him. You’ve never been particularly good, but he is, and you fall into step with him as his hands curl around you and his body sways against yours.

“So hold tight, baby, cause don't you know daddy's comin’...”

His voice fills your ear, his breath hot on your cheek, and you press back against him, your hands wrapping over his where they rest on your belly.

Without another word, you turn and take his fingers in yours, pulling him to the trailer. You’re barely inside before your lips are on his.

“Easy, easy,” he whispers, but you fumble behind him to lock the door as you kiss him deeper.

“I want” — your teeth scrape over his full lower lip — “my fiancé” — your nose along the line of his beard — “to fuck me” — your tongue down the column of his throat — “right now.”

You know Marcus. He’s soft, gentle, romantic. Just the way you love him.

And yet, inspired by the song lyrics he’d purred in your ear and your proclamation of desire, a switch seems to have been flipped.

He grabs you, swinging you around so the backs of your thighs are pressed against the little table against the other wall. You take the hint, sitting back on it as he devours your mouth. “You’re going to have to be very quiet,” he whispers. “Even with the music outside.”

You nod, whimpering already as his fingers slip under the hem of your shirt and brush against your bare skin. He moves slowly, but soon the t-shirt is gone and so is the bra beneath it, and his lips have taken their place.

Carding your fingers through his hair, you toss your head back as his tongue circles over one of your nipples. “Oh, Marcus…”

“Shhh, love,” he whispers into your skin. He continues his path, pushing you carefully back to rest on your elbows as he dips into your belly button. His deft fingers work at your jeans, and he only pulls his mouth from your body long enough to release you from them.

He meets your eyes, wordlessly awaiting your agreement, and when you mouth, “I love you”, he grins and disappears between your legs.

It’s hard to be any kind of quiet when Marcus Pike is eating you out. In fact, it’s damn near impossible, and the only way you can control yourself is to grab the t-shirt you’d been wearing and stuff it between your lips.

Marcus isn’t all that quiet, either. His little groans and moans as he strokes himself through his jeans and as his lips and tongue probe your most sensitive areas are enough to make you come then and there. His hands are holding your legs apart even as every instinct inside you is telling you to close them; his nose is nudging your clit in the most delicious way possible as his tongue darts inside you.

You remove the material from your mouth to whisper, “Marcus, baby, I’m close.”

“I know,” he replies, looking up at you, his face shimmering with your slick. “Let go.”

And as he disappears again, you do.

You’re still shaking slightly, your breath in raspy gasps, when he — rather unceremoniously — pushes into you. The feeling is overwhelming and you can’t help but cry out louder than you’d intended, but he captures the sound in another bruising kiss as he lets you adjust around him. You tighten your muscles, relishing the fullness and weight of him inside you and on top of you, and he groans, taking the t-shirt from where it now rests over your chest and tucking it carefully behind your head.

As Marcus begins a slow but sharp rhythm against you, you discover that the little table is far sturdier than you’d have expected. His thighs slap hard against the bottom of your ass, and as he begins to speed up, you have the sudden image of the whole trailer shaking with the force of his thrusts.

It makes you laugh.

“What… What’s funny?” he pants, stuttering a little in his movements.

“N-no, don’t stop,” you breathe. “Just… If the trailer’s a-rockin’...”

“Oh, Jesus, sweetheart.” Marcus’ grin is real, even as sweat begins to bead on his forehead. “I must not be doing my job if you’re making jokes right now.”

As if rising to a challenge, he slips his thumb into your mouth and presses it to your tongue. After a moment, he pulls it free and uses it — wet with your saliva — to draw lazy circles around your clit as he fucks into you.

“Ohhhhhh.”

“That’s better,” he smiles. “C’mere.”

He slows a bit to allow you to push upright, your arms wrapping around his neck as he kisses you hard. “Can you carry me?”

“Mm, I think I can manage.”

He lifts you carefully, but he stumbles, and you both nearly collapse in giggles.

“Oh, Marcus, put me down.” You pinch lightly at his hip and he lets your feet hit the floor, his eyes taking in your whole body. “Like what you see?”

“Always.”

You smile and take his hand, leading him back to the little bed, only slipping away from him to push him onto his back. You stroke his cock a few times before repositioning yourself over him, angling yourself to take him in as deep as possible.

Your groans mix together in the heavy air, and when he’s fully seated inside you, you lean forward to shove his shirt up, encouraging him to remove it. When he does, you press heavy, hard kisses to his chest, slowly rolling your hips against his as you do.

“Ah, fuck, keep that up and I won’t last,” he hisses.

You grin. “That’s my plan, Mr. Pike.” You nip at a little cluster of freckles on the front of his shoulder. “At least, the first time.”

Marcus’ hands come to rest on your waist, gripping you just enough to give the impression that he’s in control despite you making all the moves on top of him. You hold onto his elbows, using him as leverage as you bounce and grind on him, keeping your rhythm steady as you watch his face redden, his freckles popping against the flush.

“Come on, Marcus,” you murmur. “Come inside me. Claim me; claim your wife.”

There’s a moment’s hesitation in his eyes, but just a moment, until he realizes you mean it completely. His fingers press so tightly into your skin you know you’ll feel the bruises for days but you don’t care, not one bit as you feel him shudder and arch beneath you. His body trembles and it’s enough to bring you over the edge with him, all pretense of quiet gone as you cry out and fall forward, your hand slamming into the wall over his head as he buries his face in the hollow of your throat.

You’re not entirely sure how much time has passed since you rolled off of Marcus and curled up under his arm. The music outside is less electronic, so you figure the DJ has finished and one of the bands is officially playing, but that could be minutes or hours, really.

Rolling onto your side, you slip your left hand over Marcus’ stomach and wiggle your finger so the little diamond glitters in the dim amber light of the trailer. “Marcus?”

“Mm?” He sounds sleepy, dazed, but he tightens his grip on you and you feel his lips brush over your forehead.

“When did you know you wanted to marry me?”

He’s quiet, just the sound of his steady breathing for a few moments. “Do you remember the first time I came to see you sing?”

Our fifth date. “Yes.”

“It was then.”

You furrow your brow, trying to remember the exact details of the night. “Because of my voice?”

“No.” He shifts against you now, shuffling down on the bed so your faces are aligned. “It was because you walked off that stage, right up to me, and said, ‘Let’s go get Chinese food, I’m starving.’”

“...you can’t be serious.”

He grins, his whole face lighting up. “As a heart attack. I knew right then.”

You laugh, loud and happy. “Oh, I fucking love you.”

Marcus pulls you in, and you wrap your legs around him, lining him up with your entrance. “Again, sweetheart?”

You nod, shifting your hips just slightly. “I said that was just the first time,” you reply, lifting your chin for a kiss. “Gotta celebrate tonight just right.”

As he slips inside you again, gentle and easy, you cuddle your face into his throat.

“I just wanna be your lover, ain’t no liar…”

#SummerLovin24 #marcus pike fanfiction #marcus pike x f!reader #marcus pike x reader #marcus pike x you #the mentalist #marcus pike #fanfiction #writing!

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jeewrites · 7 months

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Hold Fast - Series Master List [Ongoing]

Series Summary: Frankie gets picked up at Redfly's Bar by a powerlifting girlie.

Pairing: Frankie Morales x f!reader/powerlifting!reader Rating: Eventually Explicit (18+ ONLY, MDNI)

Hold Fast Chapter List Ch. 1 - Will Squat for Dinner Ch. 2 - SBD & Cinnamon Rolls Ch. 3 - Curdles Ch. 4 - Chicken Soup Ch. 5 - 5 Courses Ch. 6 - Knuckle Sandwich (Updated 5/24!) Ch. 7 - Coffee & Donuts (Forthcoming) Ch. 8 - Ch. 9 - Ch. 10 - Epilogue

Series Tags/Warnings (will update as fic progresses!): no y/n, reader has a nickname, rom com-y, fluff, some angst, gymbff!Benny, Dad!Frankie, Sweet!Frankie, alcohol, swearing, reader is a powerlifting girlie described as short and has hair long enough to put into a ponytail, Tom is alive unfortunately (we hate Tom), Tom owns a bar called Redfly's, Pope owns a gym, alcohol, OC!Chloé, OC!Mike, body insecurity, smut, unprotected p in v (wrap it up folks), implied oral (m and f receiving), cock warming if you blink?, descriptions of a physical fight (not between Frankie and reader), prev abusive relationship mentioned (lightly described), panic attack, fictional description of custody arrangements, adulation of thighs, Triple Frontier AU where all the guys return from Colombia alive with a day pack of $ each, alternating POV, gratuitous descriptions of food, thoughts on having kids, medical terms related to pregnancy (no pregnancy), use of Daddy but not like that

Taglist: @katareyoudrilling @christinamadsen @rebel-held @littlemisspascal

@burntheedges @darkheartgatita @enretrogue @titabel @copperhalfcent

@triplefrontier-anniversary @iamskyereads

Tag list is open!

#hold fast a frankie x powerlifting!reader fanfic #frankie morales x reader #frankie morales x you #frankie catfish morales #pedro pascal characters #frankie morales x f!reader #pedro pascal cinematic universe #triple frontier fic #triple frontier fanfiction

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yopossum · 3 months

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HOME

Series Masterlist - Main Masterlist

Summary: Dieter Bravo is sober. For good, this time. He got divorced, got into treatment, and left Hollywood to focus on healing. Moving a couple hours north to the quiet city of Santa Barbara and into a modest recovery group home in the east side of town, where nobody much cared who he was or what he did, brought a calm he’d never known before. It also left him facing down all his demons armed with only pints of ice cream and weepy Murder, She Wrote marathons.

When one of his early-morning walks is interrupted by mysterious (and sexy!) music coming from a street he hasn’t explored before, Dieter stumbles upon a small private pole dance studio, and class is just about to start. He expected, as one does, to find a room full of sweaty, grinding, beautiful people in their underwear - and to be clear, he does. Amazing. What he could not have anticipated was that, inside a random purple strobe-lit garage on a gloomy Sunday morning, he’d find something he’d been searching for all his life — home.

A roommates/besties/platonic soulmates story that honors the journey of coming back to yourself after a very long and painful time away with laughter, chaos, tears, tenderness, sex, and, yes, pole dancing.

Mixed-media fic featuring traditional writing, graphics, and other digital elements, told in non-linear installments. Bravo Bits - images/videos; Dieter Drivel - ficlets.

Rating: M/E 💖🌈🔥⛈️

Pairing(s): Dieter x BFF (I mean, it’s Dieter, there’s gonna be some friendly banging), Dieter x OMC, Dieter x OFC, Dieter x nonbinary OC, Dieter x group, Dieter solo, Dieter x a powerful vision of his younger self, etc etc etc

EXTENSIVE EXHAUSTING YET INTRIGUING LIST OF WARNINGS AFTER THE BREAK 🚨🚨🚨

Warnings: BUCKLE UP I’m gonna do my best to cover everything I currently have completed, in progress, and planned. Inevitably there will be more, because Dieter. Innuendo, exotic dance/pole dance, masturbation, like a LOT of masturbation, pornography references, sexting, PIV, grinding, butt stuff, mouth stuff, hand stuff, boob stuff, you’d be shocked at all the kinds of stuff, toys, group sex, sex work, sobriety, addiction (drugs, alcohol, sex, fame), regret, shame, self-loathing, shitty families, bad relationships, abuse, body image, mental health, trauma responses, loneliness, housing access, friendship, self care AND community care, subby D, voyeurism, exhibitionism, Dieter is still a horny conspiracy theorist and bisexual chaos demon that has nothing to do with substances he’s just Like That, his bff loves him as he is, gratuitous use of 🍆🍑👄👅💦 and literally every possible vaguely sexual emoji, texting with one hand For Reasons, nicknames, good-natured teasing and exasperation, desperate need for little treats, Dieter’s filthy robe needs its own warning, belly worship, kissing, snuggling, jumping on the bed and laughing til you cry and cuddling through a sleepover with your bestie cuz it’s you two against the world, there were actually two beds but Dieter needs to share sometimes anyway, Baby Beluga, emotional breakthrough singing along to Steve Winwood’s ‘Higher Love’ while using an enormous dildo as a makeshift microphone, being banned from Target, pup cups, and Cabot Cove’s prodigal idiot nephew Grady motherfucking Fletcher

Bravo Bits

(all 🔥💖 unless otherwise noted)

Grocery Run - text thread (scrolling video)

Grady Fletcher Night - text thread (scrolling video)

Target Trip - 1 - Impetus - text thread (scrolling video)

Target Trip 2 - Aftermath - text thread (scrolling video)

You up? No. - Roomie’s screen, Dieter’s screen (images)

Dieter Drivel

Dietergesis - M - our introduction to HOME’s Dieter

Dietergesis Part 2 - NEW 9/14

#yopossum #yp home #dieter bravo the bubble #dieter bravo fluff #dieter bravo fanfiction #dieter bravo fic #dieter bravo #the bubble fanfiction #the bubble fic #pedro pascal characters #pedro pascal fandom #pedro pascal fanfiction #pedro pascal character fanfic #mixed media fic #yp bravo bits #yp dieter drivel

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vespidphoenix · 4 months

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Entirely at your service

Chapter 2: get to know me close

Sanji and Amy are excited, to say the least, to find their sexual attraction is mutual; but for Amy, there's more at stake than hedonistic pleasure. Lucky for her, Sanji takes his nickname 'the Love Cook' very seriously.

Notes: NSFW, minors begone, porn with even more feelings, chubby fem OC, more angst, more fluff, more smut, gratuitous use of French because ya girl studied that shit (affectionate) for eight years and will be damned if she lets it go to waste, oral (f receiving, m receiving mentioned), dirty talk, masturbation (m and f), praise kink, etc.; word count 5.9k

AN: I think the only recurring French Celestial word that's new in this chapter is 'dieux', which is 'gods'. 'Calisse' is only used once, but I feel like the author's notes is a more appropriate place than the main body to explain that it is a profanity in Québécois French.

AN 2: I should have mentioned this in the first chapter's ANs. While this fic is set before Whole Cake Island, Amy has partial knowledge of Sanji's backstory for reasons that will be explained eventually

Chapter 1 | Next chapter: coming soon | Masterlist | Read this chapter on ao3

(Banner courtesy of @cafekitsune)

Tag list: @turtletaubwrites @fanaticsnail

When Amy’s awareness slowly extends beyond her pulsing cunt, Sanji is there, fingering her gently as she comes down from her high and cradling her neck with his other hand. His eyes are soft and his smile broad.

“Did you…did you just cum for me?” he asks, incredulous.

Amy turns away, grumbling, “I told you I needed you now.”

“Hey, hey, hey, none o’ that, none o’ that,” he coos, and turns her head back to face him. “Nothin’ to be embarrassed about, sweetheart. You were so lovely.”

The lovers say nothing for several deep breaths while Amy recovers her ability to think. Sanji removes his hand from between her legs and cleans his fingers on the smaller towel.

“What…what do we do now?” Amy finally manages to say.

“What do you want to happen now? We can get you cleaned up, we can keep going, whatever you’d like. I am still at your service.” He winks.

Mère bleue, his winking, his eyes never fail to set Amy’s insides aflutter. She frowns, though.

“But you haven’t finished yet.” She nods to Sanji’s painfully-obvious erection. “Don’t wanna leave you hanging.”

“Well, I don’t want to pressure you into doin’ anything you don’t want…”

Amy stretches her arms and back with a groan. Sanji is torn between concern about back pain from her leaning against the bench and drooling over the view of her breasts; Amy notices his internal conflict and giggles. She leans forward and kisses him slowly.

“Let’s move this to someplace a little more comfortable, shall we?”

———

“Sanji, no, surely you’re not going to fuck me in the galley?” Amy pants a few minutes later with her back pressed against the wall of Sunny’s kitchen. “This is a food prep and storage area. Chef Zeff would—ungh, that’s the spot—Zeff would feed your cock to the sharks.”

Sanji kisses her, deeply and hungrily, grinding his hips against her. “You don’t know how my old man runs his kitchen, and besides, he’s not here.”

“I just don’t want us to get cum in tonight’s supper or something.”

“Is eating you out still on the table?” the chef asks, before sucking a mark in the valley between Amy’s breasts.

She rakes her fingernails through his hair and down his neck. “It can be, mon amour, but the couch is much more comfortable…”

She shrieks with laughter when Sanji lifts her over his shoulder and carries her around the counter to the long, green couch. “I hope you didn’t leave my top over there!” she says when he sets her down and kneels before her, and holds the towel out to her.

“Which one?” Sanji replies, his voice theatrically sultry. “Your top is right in front of you.”

“The one you all but tore—”

The punchline finally clicks, and Amy groans as she seats herself on the towel.

“My sense of humor has been a bad influence on you,” she sighs, leaning against the couch.

“Good thing I’m hot enough to pull it off, right?” Sanji grins and presents the discarded garment with a flourish.

Another fond eye-roll from Amy. “Come here and finish what you started,” she orders him, draping her arms over his shoulders, “before I change my mind and make you put it back on.”

Sanji pouts—“You would never do that to me, would you?”—but nevertheless he leans in for another deep, slow kiss. He slides his hands down to the waist of her skirt and again pauses as he dips his fingers between fabric and skin; she encircles his own hips with her legs and pulls him close.

“You’re right,” she murmurs as she nibbles his earlobe. “I wouldn’t do that to you, because you’re going to be pretty busy taking off my skirt and showing me what you can do with your tongue.”

Not for the first time this afternoon does Sanji think it a miracle when he doesn’t erupt right then and there.

“Je fais ce que la mademoiselle me commande,” he moans into Amy’s neck. [I do as the miss commands me]

Broad, strong hands plunge boldly under Amy’s sarong, under the cotton of her panties, to give her buttocks a firm squeeze. He kneads her flesh like so much dough as he works the layers of fabric down her body; like salt on focaccia he sprinkles kisses and little bites over her stomach. Forceful, yet also measured; gentle, but oh, so very thorough—such are Sanji’s touches, and Amy feels herself melting under him once again, until—

“Sanji, I—I just remembered…I haven’t shaved or anyth—” she begins to say, but he holds up a hand to stop her. His eyes remain closed, and he does not move his face away from the juncture of her thighs.

“Amy, if the notion of my being exposed to your body hair makes you truly uncomfortable, of course I will stop at once. But if you think I will be repulsed by something perfectly harmless and natural…”

Sanji sits up and presses his forehead to hers, and his clothed hardness to her sex. He’s every bit as aroused as he was when they were making out in the crow’s nest.

“Tu sens, t’as senti l’évidence de mon désir. C’est toi de qui j’ai tant besoin.” [You feel, you have felt the evidence of my desire. It's you of whom I have such need]

Amy looks up, and Sanji’s ocean eyes are troubled, darkened with lust but also disquiet; the thought occurs to her that this isn’t the first time he’s worn that look today—

Whatever…this is…

—and something in that fact feels inexplicably like the sensation of missing a step while walking down a flight of stairs, like she’s about to—

“Baise-moi, Sanji, j’ai aussi tant besoin de tes caresses,” she pleads in the hope that if her mind is overflowing with pleasure, she’ll never have to finish that thought. [Fuck me, Sanji, I need your touch just as much]

Sanji doesn’t need observation haki to tell that Amy is holding something back, something that is causing her distress. She has to know by now that he wants this, that he wants her—that his attraction to her is not in spite of her body but because of it—that he will stop at nothing to accomplish her satisfaction. He would do anything to make her feel as beautiful and desirable as she is; she deserves it, and he is the ‘love cook’. It’s what he does. But to keep going while she is upset feels wrong somehow, like he’s using her or being insensitive…on the other hand, though, she did just make her desires known in the most direct terms.

He’s overthinking this. He promised Amy she would cum on his tongue, and he will not let her down.

“I’ve got you, chérie,” he murmurs, kissing her. “I’ll make you feel good.”

His thumbs trace circles on Amy’s hips as he ever-so-slowly kisses a trail down her body, pausing only at the hickey he’d made earlier to suck at it again before soothing it with his tongue. She shudders and sighs, and lifts her hands to cup her breasts—and gives her lover an idea.

“That’s my darling girl,” Sanji rumbles. “Show me, show me how you touch yourself when you’re alone. Teach me your body, so I know best how to make you cum.”

Amy moans, and Sanji doesn’t think he’s ever heard so heavenly a sound as her desperate need for him.

“Fuck, Sanji, you don’t know how many times I’ve fantasized about you saying those words to me. It’s even hotter in reality than in my imagination.” While one hand continues to palm her nipples in turn, Amy’s left hand goes straight to her cunt—which Sanji realizes with wonderment is already dripping her slick onto the towel. He looks down to his own groin to find his shorts dampened with precum; very carefully, he slides his shorts and boxers down until his cock is freed. He takes himself in hand, moving slowly at first.

Amy’s fingers gather slick from around her entrance and move to swirl it around her clit. “I couldn’t get you out of my head after our first conversation on Mirror Ball Island,” she continues. “I had never met any man as beautiful as this tall, fair stranger who was so interested in hearing me talk about different accents of the North Blue…the prettiest blue eyes, the sharpest jawline, the smoothest voice…spirits, if I’d had the boldness, I would have dragged him outside and told him to fuck me right then and there. I just knew he would be an incredible lay.”

Sanji remembers that night well. How quickly the sting of rejection had turned to rapture when the lovely blonde med student at the bar declined his offer of a drink, only to insist that he was definitely her roommate’s type, that he might like to buy that drink for her instead—how right she had been! How charmed he had been by Amy’s sincerity and the intensity of her doe-eyed gaze! He’d have followed her anywhere, and he’d have satisfied her lust, had he been able then to read her aura.

Well, no time like the present to make up for lost time.

“Tell me, darling girl, what was I doing to your body when you couldn’t get me out of your head?” Sanji asks as he sits down, as his finger collects the sticky liquid leaking from his tip to spread along his shaft. “How did you imagine me touching you, fucking my name out of you?”

Gods, where to begin? Amy wonders. The enticing phase, the seduction, the foreplay? Does she begin with her longings, or with their blooming into sexual desire?

She’s overthinking this. He wants to know how she masturbates, so that he can get an idea of what feels good to her.

“Well, a lot of the time I’d imagine you reaching from behind me—easier to pretend that way, y’know?—perhaps I’d be wearing a halter top or that sleeveless jumpsuit, and you would just…slide your hands under the straps to cover my chest like this, yeah?”

Amy opens her eyes, and—her jaw drops. Sanji is entirely bare to her now, and his thick fingers are massaging what is indeed a respectably-sized penis. He’s breathing deeply, trying to concentrate, but his cheeks are flushed and his hairline is beaded with sweat. Is he…might he be close to finishing?

“Please, Amy…” he breathes, “please, continue de parler, je ne peux pas durer longtemps…” [keep talking, I can't endure for long]

She shakes her head. There will be time to wrap her mind around the questions of how or why her later. She resumes her rubbing and squeezing.

“You’d feel me like this for a bit, feel my heartbeat and my breathing quicken, and after a while maybe one of your hands might just…slide the straps of whatever I’m wearing off my shoulders so you could kiss me there.” Amy traces a line down her upper arm and tilts her head back, letting her eyes flutter shut for a few moments. She hears Sanji whimper an “oh dieux” that makes her cunt pulse with fresh wetness. At this rate, neither of them are going to last very long…

“…and meanwhile your other hand might be drifting over my stomach, down, under my swimsuit bottom or my panties, right down here where I need you.”

Her own hand reaches its destination, and she draws a sharp breath when she realizes there’s almost no friction at all. She gives herself one slow stroke, spreading her thighs, saying:

“This, Sanji, this is what you did to my body.” Amy draws a shuddering breath. “All for you, mon amour…”

And she finds to her amazement that the choked whimper, the quiet whine of her name, the bucking of Sanji’s slender hips, the spurts of semen from his cock are all for her.

It’s all too much, in perhaps the most pleasant of ways in which something can be too much.

It always takes him by surprise, somehow, to find himself the object of someone’s desire. Call it the ghost of his upbringing: as far as Vinsmoke Judge was concerned, other people were glorified props, with no desires to speak of until he deemed them relevant; and even when he did, it was a preposterous notion that anyone should want anything from the failure Sanji that they could not be persuaded to find elsewhere.

(More than ten years have passed since Sanji escaped from his sire, as Amy so aptly termed him; but from time to time, he can still hear German voices seeping poison into his ear. “If you lay down with dogs, you’ll get up with fleas,” his sire was fond of snarling at him—not realizing that he, Judge, was himself the dog of which he spoke.)

The surprising and preposterous is happening anyway, and Vinsmoke Judge is far from his third son’s mind. Amy Lajoie, in all her voluptuous glory, is right in front of Sanji, calling herself his lover, detailing the ways in which she wanted him of all people to feel her. It is all too much—and yet, as his mind goes blank with orgasm, he needs more.

All for you, mon amour.

He’s giving his cock a few more strokes when he hears noise from somewhere above him. Opening his eyes to find a still-naked Amy pushing herself off the couch, he protests weakly (“Darling, shouldn’t I—why don’t you let me get water—”), only for her to kneel beside him and brush the hair away from his forehead.

“It’s okay, sweet boy,” she whispers, earning a soft moan from Sanji. “You looked so gorgeous fucking your fist under me, and coming for me. If you want, you can clean yourself a bit with the towel while I get some water, maybe a fresh towel or two? We did get this one pretty wet between the two of us.”

Sanji makes a grunting noise like he’s about to protest again, and makes to sit up, but Amy is already moving toward the kitchen.

“Besides which,” she calls over her shoulder as she searches for the cups, “you did say you were going to do some eating down here, and most meals come with a drink, don’t they?”

Well, that certainly gets the man’s attention.

“I am feeling a little thirsty, now that you mention it,” he replies with a grin. “If you give me a moment, I’ll show you where I keep the coconut oil as well.”

Amy feels the presence of a warm body pressing her gently against the stove. “The cups are right here, chérie,” Sanji’s smooth voice murmurs just behind her ear as he slides his hands from her shoulder blades to her breasts.

She snickers and hangs her head. “It’s a good thing you’re hot, because that was terrible.”

“Don’t lie, sweet thing, it still made you laugh.” He smiles into the back of her head and gives her a gentle squeeze. “The cups you’re looking for are on the drying mat behind us.”

“Let’s go and get those, then, because mine won’t hold any water.” She turns to face Sanji, still in his arms.

“They could hold milk, at least in theory.”

“Only if they have a reason to do so, and ah…I’d as soon they not have one, if you catch my drift.”

Sanji looks thoughtful for a moment, before moving away from Amy to reach for the water glasses. Amy herself looks for the kitchen towels, and finds them under the sink.

“That reminds me,” Sanji says, “what did you mean earlier when you said, ‘that’s gonna have to wait a few days per Chopper’s advice’?”

Amy straightens her back and laughs. “Hah! You had said ‘fuck me raw’ upon making your entrance to the crow’s nest, yes?”

He raises an eyebrow. “Where are you going with this?”

“Well, as is often the case,” says Amy, “I was cracking a joke, but my statement was also true in a literal sense.”

“Go on…”

“I finally went to a gyno clinic before we set sail and got me one of those birth control implants. That was five days ago, and Chopper says the kind I got is fully effective after a week, lasts for a few years.”

Sanji’s eyes go impossibly wide as he connects the dots. “So what you’re telling me is—”

“—is that in just a couple more days, I’ll be able to take your pretty cock into my drooling cunt and let it fill me with your hot, thick cum without thinking about anything except for how good it feels inside me.”

Sanji is speechless, utterly speechless.

Maybe it’s the calm confidence with which she said something so intensely erotic, or perhaps it’s the way her sparkling eyes never once wavered from his that takes his breath away. He knows Amy, for all her beauty and—well—amiability, is deeply uncomfortable performing to strangers, and even among her crew she is still very much the retiring sort.

You don’t know how many times I’ve fantasized about you saying those words to me.

I couldn’t get you out of my head.

All for you, mon amour.

His mind is reeling, but he’s present enough to fill two glasses with water.

“…so hopefully Nami will be able to reallocate that part of the budget to the kitchen staff.” Amy winks at him as she sips.

“Hm? Yes, yes, that would be great.” Sanji blinks and smiles as if it were an everyday occurrence for him to be chatting so casually in the kitchen with his…crush? Girlfriend? Friend-with-benefits? Both of them completely naked, no less. Calisse, he’s overthinking again, and Amy’s stepping toward him—

She sets her cup on the counter and puts her other hand on his waist, lightly at first, waiting for him to object.

“Now who’s not listening while their lover is talking?”

Ah, yes. Lover. So he hadn’t been imagining that part after all.

“Sorry, love, I was just…taken aback, that’s all.” He smiles sheepishly.

Amy grins and pulls him closer. Resting her chin on Sanji’s chest, she says, “I was just saying that with the berry we save on tampons and prevention pills and whatnot, Nami might be persuaded to expand our kitchen budget…and, coincidentally, I will also be able to satisfy your request that I fuck you raw.”

Sanji groans and tilts his head back, and this time Amy does not hesitate to kiss his exposed neck, though she pulls back and frowns.

“Chérie, why did you stop?” Sanji whines.

“I should have asked you before whether you liked me doing that. You deserve all the same consideration a-and caring you’ve shown me.”

(There will be time later, between waking up in Sanji’s arms and the snail call from Nami alerting her to the crew’s impending return, for Amy to dwell on her reluctance to say the word ‘love’ in front of Sanji—as if the word had only one meaning, as if she and Sanji hadn’t taken to calling each other ‘lover’ like fish to water, as if merely speaking the word aloud would turn to solid ground the ocean beneath her sea legs.)

Sanji pulls her closer so that their foreheads touch. In a way, the gesture feels more intimate even than his fingering her, and Amy can feel her heart pounding harder; but there’s a soothing sort of protectiveness in it as well.

“You deserve all of that and more, sweetheart, I hope you know that,” he says, “and if you do something I don’t like, I’ll tell you to stop, o-or we can pick a safe word—and of course you’ll do the same for me, right?”

“Like you said before, I want this to be enjoyable for both of us.” Amy’s right hand begins to scratch Sanji’s back gently, while her left stays just above his firm, toned ass.

He hums and replies: “And like you said, what would be really enjoyable right now is getting back to the part where we kiss each other senseless.” He presses her between the counter and his stirring cock, and Amy feels her knees threaten to give way beneath her.

“Don’t forget”—she gives a breathy moan, and feels a fresh wetness between her legs—“about your meal, darling…”

Sanji groans, grabs a handful of towels, and downs the rest of his water in a few gulps. With his glass in the sink, he lifts Amy by her thighs and walks her back over to the couch.

“Fuck, I can’t wait to be inside you,” he moans, kissing her again with fresh hunger, “mais ça suffira comme apéritif.” [but this will suffice for an aperitif]

If Sanji’s mouthing at her breasts reminded Amy of a boy with ice cream, she thinks to herself while she still has the presence of mind, he might be said to give head as though he were savoring a popsicle. He licks long stripes up and down each side, spreading the wetness about; he laps around her glistening clit and sucks; he makes shorter licks along her folds to catch the drips that threaten to escape—only to end up with his face a mess anyway. His tongue is a warm, wet tickling thing punctuated by the blunt little tips of his piercing, leaving a swell as of the inexorable tide in its wake. He looks up, and Amy’s breath hitches in her chest: his eyes are the wine-dark sea of antiquity’s poets, and she could drown herself in them, just as he looks fit to drown himself in her.

“So fucking delicious,” he growls. “Goûte-la toi-même.” [Taste it yourself]

The faintly spicy tang which Sanji had smelled on Amy earlier dances now on his taste buds, laced with the delicate saltiness of her sex. He can’t help wanting to share—was it not Amy herself who told him that ‘a happiness shared is a happiness doubled’? And few things give him happiness quite like a woman’s pleasure.

For Amy’s part, the taste of her in Sanji’s mouth is peculiar, but not unpleasant—an acquired taste, she supposes, like alcohol or coffee. Vastly more delicious is the look on his face as he reaches for her, as he pulls back to gauge her reaction, as he dives back in to tangle his tongue with hers: equal parts bliss and longing, satisfaction and need, all for her.

So fucking delicious.

“There’s so much more where that came from, beautiful boy,” Amy whispers into the hair’s-breadth of space between them, “so don’t hold yourself back.”

“Tu me fais fondre, m’appelant comme ça, ouais?” Sanji moans, leaning into her upper body even as his hands find her thighs once more. “Dis-moi encore.” [You make me melt, calling me that, yeah? Tell me again]

Amy’s eyes flutter shut, and her fingers scrape lightly along his scalp. “My beautiful boy, my sweet boy, eating me like a good boy and sharing your food,” she croons. “So generous, my darling boy is.”

Sanji’s heart soars on the updraft of Amy’s praise, so freely given, without hesitation, that he could almost believe himself worthy of it; and to be called hers only sends him flying even higher. He nestles his head into the juncture of her legs and breathes deeply, her scent serving to ground him against going dizzy with longing. Jasmine, sweat, spice, salt. Arousal, so much arousal.

He grabs her by the waist, pulls her to the edge of the couch cushion, and dives right in. He kisses her mound, kisses the inside of her thighs, sucks marks into her skin and soothes it with swipes of his tongue; and the sight fills him with an unaccustomed warmth.

Our hidden treasure.

She’s so fucking wet for him, Sanji realizes, that he might have to swap out the towel before he and Amy are done—her slickness is dripping between her buttocks and along her thighs, and it covers surely half of his face.

“Keep talking to me, darling girl,” he rasps, “and don’t you dare be quiet. I wanna be able to hear you talkin’ me through how to make you cum.” He licks a stripe along the middle of Amy’s glistening cunt, teasing her nub until she whimpers. “I want to hear you coming undone for me.”

Amy smiles through her moan. “Ho-how’m I gonna be able to talk if you’re making me fall apart with your tongue?”

“An excellent point,” Sanji chuckles, his breath sending frissons of delight rushing over her skin. She moves her hands to massage her breasts, but is interrupted by a sudden grip on her arm.

“Hold on, chérie,” he says when Amy gives him a quizzical look. “I have an idea: you hook your legs over my shoulders”—he shifts each leg into position, pressing a kiss to each thigh as he goes—“and we hold each other’s arms”—he holds her elbows in a gentle grip—“so that you just sit back and enjoy while I do all the hard work.”

“Are you sure you don’t just like having me at your mercy?” she says with a smirk.

Sanji’s sultry grin mirrors hers. “Well, if it’s gonna be hard for you to pay attention to talking and what I’m doing to you and touching yourself, I just…want to take a bit of the load off you.”

“So considerate of you.” Amy rolls her eyes, but she is smiling, and she leans back nevertheless.

“Like I said: I’m at your service.”

“Well then, high time you get to servicing me—shit, baby, that feels good…”

Sanji has already resumed his meal. He seems to be savoring it, tasting her juices with a reverence Amy might expect him to reserve for a glass of Micqueot; and the swelling sensation that followed his tongue earlier is coming on faster, spurred by the vibration of his own moaning.

Amy starts to writhe in Sanji’s hold, whimpering when the bucking motion and the jiggling of her breasts, rather than relieving her in the slightest, only turn her on more.

“Sanji, baby, please, please,” she begs her lover, digging her heels into his back, desperate to somehow pull him even closer. “Need you more, need you deeper, please, I’m getting close—”

Something roars with triumph in Sanji’s chest when he looks up and sees the desperation in Amy’s face. Ecstatic, pleading, vulnerable yet awash with bliss, and by the clenching of her walls he can tell she’s on the edge.

“Fucking gorgeous,” he growls, his breath ghosting over her entrance. He lets go of Amy’s arms and reaches for her breasts, and at the same time licks one long stripe along her pussy-lips, pushing his face and his tongue in as far as he can.

A swipe of his thumbs across sensitive nipples and a swirl of his tongue around her clit is enough to send waves of release washing over her entire body, cries of “Sanji, Sanji, Sanji” gushing from her mouth like the cum spilling from her pussy. She tugs at Sanji’s blond hair, grinding her cunt on his face, wishing her bliss would last forever.

Sanji’s tongue and jaw are just starting to ache when the spasms in Amy’s sex and her legs subside. It’s a small price to pay, he thinks when he straightens his back and takes in the display before him: glistening beads of sweat dot the woman’s flushed face, itself sporting a faintly dopey smile; her ample bosom heaves with each breath; her limbs are spread wide and her head is flopped against the back of the couch, framed by her sweat-dampened locks; and of course, there’s the absolute mess of slick and saliva between her thighs.

“Ah, que tu es belle, comme une oeuvre d’art,” Sanji sighs, smiling affectionately. If he could paint with half of Usopp’s skill, he’d be minded to preserve this moment on canvas; but alas, the medium of his own art needs cleared away lest it go stale. He picks up a clean towel from the small stack beside him. “Are you able to stand?” [You are so beautiful, like a work of art]

“I’m still catching my breath,” Amy huffs, “after you took it away and all. Give a girl a minute.” She smiles, and Sanji chuckles.

“And here I thought your sense of humor was rubbing off on me—turns out it goes both ways.”

She hums. “Speaking of ‘rubbing off’, when—when do I get to have my turn with that cock of yours? He looks like he could use a kiss.”

Sanji pauses his massage of his jaw joints. “Say that again?”

Amy lets her eyes drift downward to rest shamelessly on his hardness. “I won’t need to use my legs if you let me give your cock the attention it’s due from here.”

Oh. He imagines her leaning forward and placing one kiss after another on the sensitive tip, down his shaft and back up its length, before licking her lips and taking him in her mouth—oh yes, he could very much use some of those kisses, and he feels his cock twitch in agreement.

“Can I swap this towel for a fresh one first, chérie?” Sanji asks. “I-I don’t know how long I can last before we’ll both need cleanin’ up.”

“I guess I can stand long enough for you to do that,” Amy pretend-mutters. “Help me stand, would you?”

He stands, takes her by the hand, and tugs.

Amy and Sanji have been naked in front of each other for several minutes now, they’ve masturbated together, they’ve put their hands and their mouths in some very intimate places—and yet, when she finds herself once again face-to-face with Sanji and skin-to-skin with the man of her lewdest dreams, part of Amy is oddly pleased to find that she is still capable of blushing.

“Can I see that for a sec?” she asks, and takes the towel from Sanji’s other hand. “You’ve got something on your face, lover boy.”

With both of his hands now unoccupied, Sanji wraps his arms around Amy. She dabs gently at his face, enough to wipe the greater part of her slick away, but leaving enough for her to inhale deeply and smell herself on his parted lips.

“Puis-je t’embrasser?” she whispers, closing her eyes. [May I kiss you]

“You, ma chérie, are always welcome to kiss me.” He leans in, closing the gap as if sensing her sudden shyness, and cradles her head in his palms. “Sois généreuse avec tes bisous. Tu devras m’en donner beaucoup plus avant que j’en aurai eu trop.” [Be generous with your kisses. You will have to give me a lot more before I will have had too many.]

Amy smiles as their lips brush. “Sounds like a challenge to me…”

The thought occurs to her that perhaps she is being recklessly unguarded, as she all but pours herself into Sanji’s eager mouth. She shoves that anxious voice out of her mind, though, and allows the voice of the man embracing her to drown it out with his appreciative moans. There’s something about kissing Sanji that feels as natural as breathing, like the realization that she can breathe normally again after recovering from a cold—a cold she’s had for more than two years, come to think of it…

Amy’s thoughts are interrupted when Sanji pulls away from her without warning. She whines wordlessly.

“Darling girl,” he murmurs almost lovingly, “if we’re to explore each other here on this couch, wouldn’t you rather do so on clean bedding?”

Amy sighs. “I suppose you have a point…but on the other hand…”

Sanji tosses the soiled towel next to his shorts and looks up. “What’s that?”

“You wouldn’t need to worry about the towels if you were coming down my throat.”

Sanji flops, dazed, onto the couch, and Amy is just standing there, her expression neutral but her eyes twinkling. She’d said it so casually, as if she were talking about groceries rather than about sucking his cock that aches to feel her around it. And ache it does, all the harder now that he’s tasted her heat and felt the hunger in her lips; but now she’s climbing into his lap, straddling him much as she had not even an hour prior—

“Would you like that? Can I—may I taste you as you’ve tasted me?”

He throws his head back, and this time Amy neither hesitates to kiss every inch of his neck she can reach nor pulls away to apologize.

“Oh dieux, Amy, fuck—you’re—you’re not makin’ it easy to be romantic here…”

You’re not makin’ it easy to be romantic here…

to be romantic

romantic

Amy doesn’t even realize she’s frozen still until Sanji shifts in her embrace so that he’s looking into her eyes.

“Is everything alright, darling? Talk to me.”

She blinks and scrambles to think of something to say. He’s making that face again, she realizes, the face at once doting and troubled.

“Why…do you keep looking at me like that?” she finally manages to whisper. “Like the sight of me makes you happy and breaks your heart at the same time? You made that face just before you started going down on me, and you made it when I told you I wanted to keep the fact of our, well, tryst to ourselves…”

Sanji pulls her down to sit across his lap and takes her right hand in his left.

“Truly, has no one ever tried to romance you or woo you in any way? Surely I’m not the only person in the world who isn’t blind to your many charms?”

Amy tucks her left arm around Sanji’s waist and her cheek into his shoulder. “I guess…a few have tried, but they never lasted very long. More often I would…develop an affection, let’s say, for someone in my circle of friends, and he might move away in search of greener pastures—or deeper waters, you might say—before anything had a chance to actually happen between us.” She pauses to take a deep, shuddering breath—why the hell is she still tearing up over this?—and adds: “That’s if I was lucky.”

There’s a long silence after Sanji’s hum of acknowledgment, during which he only rests his head on top of hers, and runs his right hand up and down her arm.

“I let them go,” Amy says darkly. “I’d rather live without them than have someone change their mind and be with me out of pity or guilt.”

Sanji nods thoughtfully and is quiet for several breaths longer. Just as Amy is about to beg him to say something, he speaks.

“I think you underestimate your own courage sometimes. Your integrity. The value of those qualities. Easy to do so when you’re not the first person to downplay those parts of you, yeah? Doesn’t make it right or true, though.”

He brings the back of her hand to his lips and holds it there for a long moment. He twines his fingers with hers, and Amy stares at their clasped hands, transfixed.

“I meant what I said, Amy, when I told you that you deserve an eager lover,” Sanji murmurs. “I dunno what face I was makin’ in those moments you were talkin’ about, but I think that’s why I was makin’ it. You deserve someone who treats you like the treasure you are.”

Another silence, which Amy breaks this time—

“I thought you said I wasn’t making it easy to be romantic.”

“It’s not quite so hard when I don’t have a beautiful, naked woman kissing my neck”—Sanji grins and lightly pokes her nose—“not that I’m complaining.”

Sanji’s not complaining, no, but he does feel a pang of something when Amy steers the conversation back into the familiar territory of flirtatious banter. She’d gone from amorous to vulnerable at the mention of romance, evidently with good reason; and though he’d done his best to reassure and comfort her as befits a good lover—well, it seems Amy’s sexual needs aren’t the only things his predecessors neglected.

It looks like the Love Cook has his work cut out for him.

PS: this angst has been brought to you by the influx of posts about Bridgerton season three on my dash. Picture Nicola Coughlan as a brown-eyed brunette, and for purposes of OC art you basically have Amy.

Likes, reblogs, and replies are appreciated, especially if somehow I fucked up post formatting or my French grammar. Let me know in the replies if you want to be on my tag list!

#one piece #one piece live action #black leg sanji #one piece fanfiction #one piece oc #one piece smut #sanji smut #sanji x oc #oc: amy lajoie #oc x canon #my ocs #my fanfiction #my fictional husband

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elvisabutler · 2 years

Text

jealousy

summary: you know better than to talk to other guys sometimes in elvis's ear shot. elvis reminds you of why. fandom: austin butler | elvis ( 2022 ) | elvis presley pairing: austin butler elvis x female reader rating: m. word count: 2100 warnings: throat fucking. possessiveness. big daddy elvis ( so '74 to '77 timeframe ). mildly dubious consent. elvis's paranoia. elvis's prescription drug use. daddy kink, because elvis does actually refer to himself as daddy in this. gratuitous use of nicknames ( lil one, baby, honey, darlin', the whole nine yards ). mild hint of face fucking. kind of faintly almost d/s element but not quite. oral ( m receiving, f implied/referenced ) author's note: welcome to day 29 for kinktober, throat fucking with austin!elvis. okay so everyone needs to thank @butlersxbirdy for this one since at the time she and I literally were losing it over big daddy elvis. we still are, but it was basically hey which version of austin elvis should i do, and she was like big daddy without missing a beat. i'll have a 68 special version out possibly tonight or tomorrow but this one got top billing because i wanted to. but basically everyone else gives you soft big daddy, i'll give ya some fucked up big daddy. ( i'm going to give y'all a very very soft big daddy for the holiday season, don't worry. ) imagine whoever, this is supposed to be austin elvis but timeline i picked makes it tricky y'all know my particular drill.

Elvis is possessive, a fact that everyone who ever spends longer than two minutes with the man and has him like them is vividly aware of. You are Elvis's or you are not, there is that strict dichotomy that very few if any people break- and you are not one of those people. Priscilla, when you've interacted with her during handoffs for Lisa tells you it didn't used to be this bad, that yes, he could sleep around but she couldn't and that her finding her way into his former karate instructors bed after she left him made him so angry he was almost unrecognizable, but she figured it was fine and would settle down. Then she heard the stories from Linda and now you and- well she likes to pretend you'll calm him down. Not fix him exactly but you've already mildly tempered his pill usage and have him actually eating healthy despite being on the road. Maybe third time's the charm?

Except- here is the inherent problem, you're younger than him, not hard seeing as he's around his 40s but you crave attention in a way that he doesn't always provide. You wouldn't say he disregards the fact that you could leave- oh far from it- his worship of you legendary to all members of the Memphis Mafia and anyone who's had any sort of contact with Elvis as far as touring or recording goes. But sometimes he forgets- sometimes in the haze of his pills and every other thing he forgets that you can run free, you can easily run away from him and never look back- he's spoiled you with enough clothes that even if you had no marketable skills to speak of you could handle yourself on selling his trinkets alone.

You sometimes flirt as easy as breathing, a quality that Elvis will swear up and down is one of his favorite about you- you're pure, baby but Lord have mercy, the things your eyelashes fluttering can do to a man he had once said after you had told him about your sexual history. You flirt and flirt and boy- men- have a tendency to fall for it, tend to become wrapped around your finger in ways that would make your Mama blush. It gives you a rush of power, reminds you that even if Elvis is ignoring you for the fourth day and night in a row that you're attractive, you're the sort of woman men want and it gives you a little pep. But you know as well as anyone that you can't let Elvis hear or see you do what you do when you flirt though so you always make sure it's done out of his earshot, his eyesight and while he's preoccupied.

At least that's usually what you do, it's the fifth day and while you don't mind Elvis leaving you alone for a bit, for a day or two when it starts inching toward a week you can't help but feel bitter and angry. It's that feeling that leads you to where you are, your hand on some guy's- you think his name is Jeff- arm giggling at something that is not even remotely funny but you know how to charm a man. You're wrapped up in trying to make sure he's smiling that you don't hear the telltale sound of Elvis's buckle clanging as he walks up to see what you're doing. You don't notice how your conversation partner freezes as his eyes look behind you. You don't notice the scent of Elvis freshly showered until you feel his heat up against you, until you feel his breath against your neck and until you feel the growl emanate from his deep in his chest. You freeze after that.

"Darlin'." He says, his tone deathly calm. "Who's this? A friend?"

You open your mouth to say something before Jeff ends up muttering something about needing to head off but it was so nice to meet you and you turn to face Elvis a snarl forming before you can even stop it.

"Oh now you want to pay attention to me." You move to make sure Elvis doesn't try and grab for you. "Find someone else and you appear out of thin air."

Elvis's eyes narrow and darken making you very quickly realize you might have messed up. They're not as clear as they have been in the past weeks which means that just maybe he's not all there. That you've stepped into a minefield that he'll take you out of, just not right this moment. You move to grab his arm before he yanks it out of your reach. "Oh no, honey, you know better. I was- Come with me to our room, baby. Think I need to talk to you. Remind you of some things." He turns from you with a growl that has arousal curling low in your abdomen and has you traling after him in a way that sometimes embarrasses you with how eager you are to do it, but you can't stop yourself from doing it nonetheless. The walk and elevator ride up to where he's staying and where you should be staying is a silent one, punctuated only with Elvis grumbling something to himself and your heaving breaths the more you think about what Elvis is planning on doing to you. You enter the room and in an instant find yourself crowded against the wall, Elvis using his both his weight and his arms to make sure you're not moving any time soon. You open your mouth to talk before Elvis shakes his head and cuts you off.

"Ya know how jealous I get lil one. Know how I damn well wanna kill men when they're lookin at you as you're cumming just from me brushin' against ya. And yet ya let one of them think he could have ya." His hand moves to your shoulder and makes a movement like he wants to force you to the ground but he holds off for at least the moment. "Got me so goddamn riled up and jealous, baby. Got your Big Daddy angry. You wanna know what I do when I'm this angry with ya? What I've always wanted t' do when you get me this angry?"

You look at him in what you like to think is an attempt to look innocent, an attempt to charm him with those eyelashes you know he can barely resist only to see the look in his eyes, see the look of barely restrained anger written all over his face and realize that it won't work. The words you had meant to say die on your lips, swallowed in the guip you take as you nod.

"On your knees." He commands and leaves absolutely no room for questioning, his hand remaining on your shoulder in case you need some help getting down. "And deal with my pants while you're at it."

You comply, falling to your knees quicker than you ever thought possible, your hands working at his belt buckle and at the button and zipper of his pants, your hands shaking just a tad as you pull them down. He hadn't asked to have his boxers taken off so you left them, not that it did much to conceal what was happening underneath, how he seemed to be getting harder by the moment.

His hand that was on her shoulder moves to the back of your head, his ring covered hands moving to grip your hair in any way he could. "Little boys wouldn't know what to do with ya. Wouldn't treat ya like I do. Wouldn't have you coming nearly as hard as ya do with me." You shift a little, trying to produce some form of friction between your legs. You're so focused on that task that you don't notice how Elvis's eyes zero in on the motion. All you actually notice is how he ends up letting out a laugh that sounds downright evil. It sounds like that young boy who sang that he was evil and you shiver. "I'm gonna make sure you can't fuckin' talk to them for a week. Gonna wreck your throat so that all you can do is nod for yes daddy." He pauses and growls. "Bet you're gonna cum right now. Bet if I touched you right this second you'd make a mess of the goddamn carpet."

Leaning forward, you start to nuzzle at his cock through his briefs and realize that you can't feel any shame about it. You don't feel any shame about it, too busy trying to calm Elvis down and too busy remembering just why as much as you might want to stray from him when he wanders just a bit- you don't. "Daddy, I would. I would make a mess, but please daddy, you can touch me I want you to touch me."

Elvis yanks at your hair and thus you back a little roughly and you hiss. "No nuzzlin'. This ain't you getting a treat. This is you being reminded who you belong to." His tone is shifting into something that almost sounds like a growl. "Whose thick thighs you cum on. Whose cock you love having in that pretty pussy and mouth. Whose is it, darlin'?"

"Yours." You whine, pulling down his underwear without him actually asking to. "Your thighs, your cock."

His lips curl into a smirk as he uses the grip on your hair to force your face into his crotch. You have the foresight to open your mouth but even so you end up choking a little around his cock. He pauses when he realizes you're struggling, not wanting to hurt you exactly. You grip his thigh as an okay and he continues to push his cock further into your mouth until it's tickling the back of your throat. You swallow involuntarily and Elvis groans, low and in a way you want to hear over and over again. He starts to move, using his grip on your hair to control how quickly he's fucking your mouth, how deep his cock is reaching. You gag a little even as you try and relax just from the sheer force of his cock hitting your throat.

"Swallow, baby, do it again." He murmurs, trying to feel your throat start to constrict around his tip. "Fuckin' love this mouth. Most perfect goddamn mouth. Never gonna let it go. Never gonna let those boys take you from me. I'll shoot 'em before they do. Might not look like 'em anymore but they couldn't handle my girl."

You whimper at the words, your eyes starting to roll in the back of your head as you rut against the floor, wanting to touch yourself but resisting the urge. Elvis is still controlling the pace but you can feel how he's starting to struggle to keep up, his movements becoming a little less controlled, a little less consistent. You help out, making sure your mouth stays on him, that his cock still is hitting the back of your throat until you taste the saltiness of his cum and feel the warmth of it filling your mouth. You swallow, struggling just a little but Elvis doesn't let up, doesn't let you off until he's finished and you've swallowed as much as you can. He finally lets go of your hair and you lean back, breathing heavily, trying to ignore the throbbing of your clit and the mild burn you still feel in your throat.

"Wasn't flirting." You force out, your voice sounding like you had every sore throat known to man at once. You try and swallow thinking it will help before realizing it doesn't. "Want to cum, please."

His eyes are lidded when he looks at you, looking almost like he might want to fall asleep on you before he hums, holding out his hand to you. "Up on the bed. No talking till you come. Wanna hear you scream my name with my face in your pussy."

You take his hand, using the leverage to pull yourself up and frown. "I don't think I can scream. Won't make the noise."

He pulls you close and pulls you into a kiss. "You will. Then you can lose your voice. Then we can both know I fucked that throat of yours completely raw."

If you raise an eyebrow in a challenge, that's your business. And if after that eyebrow you don't speak for another week because you practically croak when you try? Well. That's yours and his business.

#austin butler elvis x you #austin butler elvis x reader #austin butler elvis #austin elvis #austin elvis x reader #austin elvis x you #austin butler elvis x y/n #austin elvis x y/n #austin butler #austin butler elvis smut #austin elvis smut #ally's kinktober 2022 #kinktober 2022 #ally writes #think i did all the tags?

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fuckyeahdindjarin · 1 year

Text

IV ║ Notch

Joel Miller x F!Reader

{ Part III: Edgestitch | Behind the Seams: Part IV | Series Masterlist | Main Masterlist }

Rating: E, but not that explicit

Summary: While Ellie works her first shift at the Outfitters, Joel drops by yours to return the blouse you left behind at the baby shower. Turns out, there's plenty around the house to keep him occupied until the teenager clocks off.

Warnings: Sexual tension, body insecurity, some language, inaccurate descriptions of gardening, gratuitous descriptions of the male body, undervest supremacy, flirting, dry humping, shy!reader, reader has a nickname related to her job, soft!domestic!Joel, no use of Y/N

Word count: 8.9k

Notes: Once I started writing this chapter in earnest, it came together a bit more quickly than I expected! It's extremely self-indulgent, with plenty of white undervest and belly action because you guys deserve all of that goodness for being the most patient, loving readers a writer could hope for 🥹 Thank you, I love you all! ❤️

Notch – diamond shaped marks that stick out beyond the edge of the pattern to line up all the pieces when sewing the garment. They come in pairs to be matched up.

Joel is sleeping - which is not something that could be said until a couple of months ago.

After the outbreak, sleep as a concept ceased to exist. What took its place is literal ‘shuteye’, either engineered by pills knocked back with moonshine, or a preventative shutdown by his body to avoid total failure, having pushed his physical form to the living limit.

It’s the kind of sleep that is destitute and provides no relief. It keeps the cogs turning just enough that he doesn’t expire, standing in his boots - which, on most days, are not the only things held together by duct tape.

But after the hospital, even that turned out to be too much to ask for. Some nights, the itch for chemical-induced relief got so bad that Joel entertained the thought of asking Tommy for illicit pills, ready to crawl on all fours to his brother’s house two streets down because he was shaking so hard he couldn’t lock his knees. But he didn’t trust him not to tell Maria, and with Ellie in the picture, he wasn’t about to tempt fate.

So instead, he asked Maria to assign him to night patrols. She hmmm’d at his request like she knew something he didn’t, but she humoured him, letting him take the graveyard shift for a couple of weeks straight. She didn’t have to tell him that she could see the way he tripped over his own feet and hear the slur in his voice. She’s too sharp not to notice.

But she didn’t say anything.

What she did do though, was not so subtly wean him off the late-night patrols. It started with a couple of random, last-minute changes, and then the next thing he knew, he was working morning shifts exclusively. When he tried covertly swapping stints with another guy, he showed up at the guard tower at midnight to find his sister-in-law standing in the doorway, arms crossed over her pregnant belly.

As he trudged home begrudgingly with his head down and her stern reprimand in his ears, he couldn’t help a chuckle. Gotta hand it to her.

Banished back to his bed, Joel went back to staring owlishly at the ceiling, watching the moonlight slide across the plaster until he knew all the cracks in it with his eyes closed (metaphorically). He’d listen to Ellie snoring away two doors down and marvel at the fact that she somehow still slept like the dead, even after… all that.

And then, one night, it happened for him too.

Admittedly, he ate a bit too much at Tommy and Maria’s - on top of running the town like a well-oiled machine, she makes a mean chicken fried steak - and Ellie had not so subtly plonked a second helping on his plate without asking. He was lying in bed, steeling himself for another long night, when his eyes drooped. The motion was so alien that it jolted him wide awake, but he couldn’t shake the weight that clung to the seams of his lashes. The next time he opened his eyes, it was morning.

Turns out you can teach an old dog new tricks.

It’s nowhere near consistent, and more often than not he wakes up in a cold sweat in the small hours, but in between, he’s sleeping. For once, he’s feeling rested. And it’s a nice fucking break from the relentless exhaustion that he’s convinced is fused into his bones.

He always wakes up earlier than Ellie though. She never stomps down the stairs until he’s already had breakfast, and hers has gone cold.

So on the Saturday morning following the baby shower, with his face plastered into the mattress, body curled around a pillow - old habits die hard - Joel nearly falls out of bed at the banging on his door.

‘Joel! Get the fuck up!’

For one disconcerting moment between sleep and wake, he’s in his bedroom back in Texas. He half expects to look up to see the posters on the wall and the perpetually overflowing laundry basket at the foot of his bed.

Blinking through the urge to close his eyes, the colours fade and he stares blearily at the digital clock on his bedside table.

7:30.

What the fuck? More often than not he has to drag the teenager out of bed by the ankles, kicking and swearing, at 7:50 to get to school at 8:00.

His knees groan as he staggers onto his feet, grabbing yesterday’s jeans from the floor and pulling them on. He finds a passably clean shirt about five deep on a chair, which he shrugs on over his white undervest. With a grunt, he yanks open the door and heads downstairs on bare feet, frowning at unfamiliar sounds coming from the kitchen.

Joel pauses in the doorway, hands on hips. ‘What do you think you’re doin’?’

Deeming his question unworthy of a response, Ellie tosses him a roll of her eyes over her shoulder and resolutely ignores him.

Shuffling closer, he asks, ‘Are you - cookin’?’

Brandishing the spatula at him, she snarls, ‘What does it look like I’m doing?’

He goads her with a smirk. ‘To be honest, it looks like you threw up in the pan.’

Ellie elbows him hard in the stomach. ‘Fuck you, man!’

He grins. There’s nothing like winding her up first thing in the morning. Grabbing the pan, he bins the ruined eggs, scraping off the burnt bits stuck to the bottom. ‘Crack some more eggs, I’ll make ‘em.’

Ten minutes later, in their usual seats at the kitchen table, they tuck into scrambled eggs and buttered toast.

‘Slow down,’ warns Joel as Ellie wolfs down hers. ‘You’re gonna choke.’

‘You hurry up! Can’t be late for my first day,’ she garbles through a mouthful of food.

‘Why can’t you be like this about school?’ he grumbles, then he winces as his teeth catch something crunchy. Picking it out, he gives her a pointed look. ‘Eggshell.’

‘Calcium,’ she shoots back without even looking up, too busy shoving the rest of her breakfast into her mouth, stuffing her cheeks like a chipmunk.

That one word stops Joel in his tracks and hurls him twenty years back in time.

But then Ellie is jumping up and practically throwing her empty plate into the sink, sneakers squeaking on the tiled floor as she dashes out of the kitchen. ‘C’mon, old man!’

Joel smiles, the memory warm like sun on his face.

He shakes his head, slowly finishing his breakfast - like he wishes he did that day.

They turn out to be fifteen minutes early.

To his chagrin, Ellie admits freely that she lied about the time so they wouldn’t be late. He’s a punctual guy, thank you very much. He certainly doesn’t need to be schooled by the little brat.

Joel sits on the stairs, while Ellie has her face squished up against the door, unabashedly leaving smudges on the glass panels as she keeps up an uninterrupted running commentary on every last piece of clothing she can see.

He tunes her out easily, shifting in his seat so that his right ear is to the door. In his hands is the blouse that you left behind at Tommy and Maria’s at the baby shower. He’s been meaning to return it to you, but the week got away from him, and there’s no time like the present.

Considering the state of his knees, he impresses himself with the speed at which he stands at the sound of footsteps on the otherwise quiet main street. Squaring his shoulders, he discreetly pulls on his shirt, suddenly seeing wrinkles everywhere in the fabric, and runs his fingers through his hair, wishing he’d taken another look in the mirror before he left the house -

But it’s Lucy who appears at the bottom of the stairs with her unfailingly sunny smile.

‘Hi, you must be Ellie,’ she chirps.

She eyes Lucy cautiously, lips pinched to one side. ‘Where’s Pin?’

Joel growls. ‘Manners.’

Ellie puts her hands up in surrender. ‘Sorry. I meant - nice to meet you, where’s Pin?’

Lucy beams good-naturedly and fiddles with the lock. ‘She’s off today, and it’s all my fault because I made her work three weekends in a row. You’ll be helping me in the front anyway, so I’ll show you the ropes.’ Stepping aside and swinging the door open, she prompts, ‘In you go now, hon.’

Ellie doesn’t even look back at him, rushing into the shop like a thoroughbred fresh out of the starting gates.

Pocketing the keys, Lucy smiles. ‘Hi Joel.’

‘Hey,’ he nods back. ‘Sorry about Ellie.’

‘Don’t be, I was exactly like her when I was younger. Still am sometimes,’ she jokes. Then with a sly side eye, she remarks, ‘And honestly, you look more disappointed that I showed up than she does.’

He splutters, ‘Dunno what you’re talkin’ about.’

She smirks knowingly, gesturing at the blouse clutched tightly in his left fist. ‘I can pass that to Pin for ya.’

Joel hesitates for just a second, and Lucy bursts into laughter, elbowing him teasingly. ‘The way your face fell! I’m joking, Miller. Relax.’

He shakes his head. ‘It’s fine, guess I’ll give it to her next time she’s ‘round.’

Just then, from the depths of the shop, Ellie gasps dramatically and yells at the top of her lungs, ‘I want thissssssss one!’

Meeting Lucy’s eyes, Joel asks, ‘Sure you gonna be ok left alone with her?’

She shrugs. ‘There’s only one way to find out.’

He flashes her a thumbs up. ‘I’ll pick her up at three then.’

He’s about to walk away from the Outfitters when Lucy’s voice stops him. ‘Hey, Joel!’

Looking up at the wraparound porch, he raises an eyebrow in a silent question.

‘She lives in the yellow cottage on the same street as the shoe shop. Keep going north, you can’t miss it,’ she says with a two-finger salute and a parting line that he’s heard before. ‘Say hi to Pin for me!’

You’ve always had a soft spot for the turn of the season, when late spring blooms graciously give way to summer buds. The grass smells greener, and the air is pregnant with pollen and nectar. It’s not overly warm yet, but you can feel the intensity in the sunlight, muted only by the early hour. Good thing you’re starting early.

It’s unseasonably warm for June, and the vegetable patch on the far end of your garden has suddenly burst into life. The cauliflower has finally come through after two failed crops in a row, and both the tomato vines and pepper plants are thriving. Closer to the ground, the onion and garlic shoots are patiently waiting to be pulled, and asparagus shoots spear through the earth in tidy lines one after another.

Pulling on a hat and gloves, you get to work.

You’re halfway through the second row of onions when there’s a faint knock on the front door. Even though you’ve only been in the sun for a little while, the coolness inside the house feels like a balm to your skin as you pad inside, peeling off your gloves before reaching for the door.

Swinging it open, you’re stumped by the sight of Joel Miller on your doorstep.

You haven’t seen him since the party, where you’d agreed on a start date and time for Ellie’s first shift, and -

Since the kiss.

You’ve felt his absence keenly. You’ve caught yourself loitering on street corners, hoping to catch a glimpse of him, knowing you’ll be able to spot him just by the way his shoulders swing with his long strides. You’ve kept an ear out for the southern lilt that has chased goosebumps across your skin, or any mention of his name, but all in vain.

Jackson has a habit of growing in size, usually in direct proportion to one’s desperation.

Now that he’s somehow here, you’re aware you’re gaping at him, so broad that his shoulders are blocking out the daylight. Too many years out of practice to count, you have no idea what the protocol is when you next see the man who literally made your knees buckle with just his lips and nothing else.

‘Mornin’, he finally says with a small smile.

You stammer. ‘H-hello. What, um, I mean, how -’

‘I dropped off Ellie at the shop and Lucy told me where you live,’ he explains, shaking out the blouse in his hands. ‘Thought I’d come ‘round and return this.’

Your palm twitches with the urge to smack yourself on the forehead. Of course that’s why he’s here.

Taking the top from him, you smile back gratefully. ‘Thank you. And of course, it’s Ellie’s first day. I’m sorry I can’t be there, but I’ve been subbing for Lucy on the weekends for a month straight and I needed a break.’

He waves away your apology. ‘Count yourself lucky. She was just ‘bout bouncin’ off the walls.’

‘Bless her heart,’ you chuckle, breaking off when his eyes flicker over you, as if he’s just registered your very minimalist ensemble of a white cotton tank top and denim cut-offs. Your skin prickles under his scrutiny, flattery winning out against self-consciousness at the deliberate drag of his gaze over you, a thoughtful weight behind it.

That is until something catches his attention, and you flinch when he peers under the brim of your hat. ‘What -’

Before you can even articulate your question, he’s taken one step towards you, his work boots heavy on your creaky wooden porch. His voice is low but rough around the edges, just the way you like it.

‘You got some dirt -’ he swipes his index finger firmly on the end of your nose. ‘Right here.’

Your jaw hangs open, then clamps shut, in quick succession, the shell of your ears burning hot at his fleeting touch. Throat suddenly dry, you barely manage to squeak, ‘Thanks.’

One day, you will at least try and keep your cool around this man. But alas, it is not this day.

Rearranging himself, Joel leans on the doorframe with his arms crossed and remarks conversationally, ‘You look outdoorsy this mornin’.’

Flashing the soil-stained gloves at him, you try to keep your voice steady. ‘I’m just doing some gardening out back. The vegetable patch needs harvesting.’

He purses his lips at that. ‘Didn’t peg you as the gardenin’ type.’

You don’t know where the bravado comes from, but you swat him on the arm with the gloves and quip, ‘There’s a lot you don’t know about me.’

‘You got me there,’ he huffs a laugh and gestures towards the back of the house. ‘Anythin’ I can do to help?’

The refusal is on the tip of your tongue. You don’t say yes to a whole lot nowadays, other than when Lucy makes you. But then you hear yourself ask, a challenge in your voice that you didn’t know you had. ‘I don’t know. Are you any good with your hands, Joel Miller?’

At the boldness in your words, which you don’t take back, Joel’s eyebrows reach for his hairline. Biting your lip but standing your ground, you watch him grind his jaw as he considers his response.

‘Why don’t you try me, sweetheart?’

‘Like this?’

‘Wait - slow down.’

A shuffle of hands. ‘How about now?’

‘That’s it. Yes, that’s good. Keep going.’

A raspy grunt. ‘I think I’m almost there.’

‘Yeah, that’s right, don’t stop -’

‘Alright, you ready?’

‘Come on, Joel -’

With one last flick, the knife slices clean through the base of the stalk, and Joel plucks the cauliflower head out of its leafy cradle with a triumphant grin.

‘How’s that for good hands, huh?’ he crows.

‘I’ll get back to you in the fall when we see if the cauliflower grows back,’ you tease.

He huffs, squinting up at you through the sun. ‘You’re hard to please, sweetheart.’

You preen at the playful turn of the conversation. If you were a little braver, you’d give him a mischievous wink - but for now, you gesture at the patch. ‘Can you handle the rest? I’ll get started on the peppers.’

He nods. ‘Leave ‘em with me.’

The pepper plants are having a great season, standing at four feet tall and heaving with fruits. You’ve left them alone on the vine for the last three weeks to sweeten, and they have dutifully ripened into a beautiful red. Settling onto your knees, you methodologically comb through the peppers from top to bottom, cutting off each one by the stalks.

It’s a big harvest, half of which you plan on giving away to your neighbours in exchange for their berries and lemons. Some you will cook. Lucy is due to come over for dinner, and she loves your stuffed pepper recipe. The rest you’ll have to find time to roast, skin, deseed and preserve in oil, which will last the rest of the year -

A shadow falls over you, stilling your hands and drawing your eyes upwards.

The sight is familiar - feet planted shoulder-wide by your knees, chin tucked in as he stares down at you, your nose level with the front of the jeans that you picked out for him - you’ve seen it all before, except for one small detail.

Joel is sweating. A lot.

His thin plaid shirt - you’re not sure if you’ve seen him in anything else yet - is sticking to him like a second skin, clinging to the solid outline of his biceps as he holds onto the basket full of cauliflower heads. The sunlight glances off the perspiration dotting his hairline, and the wispy grays that normally curl away from his face have wilted in the humidity.

There’s a flush under his skin as he swipes at his forehead with his shirt sleeve, and your gaze follows a bead of sweat dripping down the prominent vein on the side of his neck, and into the deep V of his shirt - wait, is that the outline of an undervest that you can just make out underneath -

‘Should I take the cauliflower in?’

‘Um -’ you stammer to a halt, eyes still plastered to the front of his chest, just like his shirt.

He clearly mistakes your gawking for something else, flashing you an apologetic smile at his state. ‘Sorry, I work up a sweat real easy.’

Oh, come on. Now all you’re thinking about is how else he works up a sweat -

Seized by the sudden need to get out of the heat in more than one sense of the word, you rip the basket from his grasp and turn on your heels to sprint into the house with a choked, ‘I’ll be right back!’

You nearly trip over your own feet running into the kitchen, your heart thumping so loudly in its ribcage it feels like the whole house is shaking to the beat.

And all that man has done is sweat in front of you.

‘Pull yourself together, Pin,’ you mutter to yourself as you tip the cauliflower heads onto the kitchen table. Grabbing a jug from the cupboard, you put it in the sink and turn on the faucet. Watching the trickle of water, you make yourself take three deep breaths.

Joel’s kind enough to do you a favour, you could at least have the courtesy to not perv on him while he helps you out.

Nodding determinedly to yourself, you pluck two glasses from the drying rack, putting them inside the empty basket that you hook on your elbow, and march back outside -

Only to almost swallow your tongue and drop the full jug of water right at your feet.

Joel’s sweat-soaked shirt is now hanging on your washing line like a white flag, having surrendered to the heat. And just like that, the very image that has been inconveniently seared into the back of your eyes since the party is suddenly before you in all its glory, in the morning sun, out in the open air.

The white undervest stretches over the breadth of him, and if he didn’t look so good in it, you would’ve laughed at the comical way the flimsy straps are clinging onto his shoulders for dear life. Then he bends over to inspect the tomato vines, the bottom of his vest riding up with the movement, teasing a flash of skin above the waistline of the jeans pulled tight over his behind. One big hand reaches out, the outline of his arm flexing as he does, and he palms the bottom of one tomato, testing if it’s ripe for the picking.

Except in your head, it’s something else he’s cupping with such rapturous attention.

He doesn’t notice you until he stands up with a low grunt of effort. Pointing an apologetic finger at his shirt, he says, ‘I hope you don’t mind, I’m sweatin’ right through it like nobody’s business.’

You make a noise in your throat that you pass off as an answer, and with shaky hands, pour him a full glass of water which you shove in his direction.

‘Appreciate it, sweetheart.’ He salutes you and takes a long drag, tipping his head back. You watch, transfixed, as the sunlight bounces off the lines of sweat criss-crossing down the strong column of his neck, and the hard bob of his Adam’s apple as he swallows.

Suddenly, you’re parched. But you don’t trust yourself to stay upright, let alone pour yourself a drink.

‘It’s hot today,’ Joel breaks the loaded silence, though it’s possible that it’s unilaterally so on your side.

‘Uh-huh,’ you croak, still holding onto the water jug like a shield.

He peers at you with a touch of mischief. ‘You ain’t gonna swoon or anythin’ are you?’

Probably. And definitely not for the reason he has in mind.

You attempt a weak smile that may have come off as a grimace. ‘I’ll try not to.’

Reassured, he nods towards the garlic patch. ‘C’mon. Let’s get our hands dirty, sweetheart.’

By the time the vegetable patch has been thoroughly picked and the baskets crammed full, the sun is high in the sky, the morning clouds burned off with the heat.

Joel isn’t the only one who’s sweating through his clothes - your light cotton top is now clinging uncomfortably to your skin, sweat dripping down your sternum and dampening the cups of your bra. You heave a sigh of relief when he helps you move the haul to a shaded corner near the porch where you have an outdoor sink and wheel hose installed.

Emptying the root vegetables into the sink, Joel steps back and casts a critical eye over the rain gutters that line the eaves of your house. Fingers spread over one jutting hip, he leans his weight on his right leg, the stance creating all kinds of angles that are completely unnecessary in this kind of heat.

He points at the leaves and branches that are clearly sticking out from the channels, but you’re only really interested in studying his large hands. The bumps and veins on the back of them, the watch with the broken face on his left wrist, the dirt coating his thick fingers, pushed under tidily trimmed nails. The logical thought that follows is how he would leave dark streaks on your white top when he pulls you in by the waist -

‘Looks like the gutters need cleanin’,’ Joel declares.

Well, the gutter your head is currently dunked in can certainly do with a good scrub.

‘Rainy season doesn’t start for another few months, they can wait.’

He uh-uh's sternly. ‘I’ve heard that before. Do you have a ladder?’

‘You really don’t have to -’ you protest, but he won’t hear it.

‘It’s no big deal, I’m sweaty anyway,’ he replies. ‘Besides, you’ll be doing me a favour keepin’ me occupied. I don’t pick Ellie up till three.’

You bite your lip. ‘But I feel bad working you so hard.’

Without skipping a beat, he winks. ‘Don’t worry your pretty head, sweetheart - I like workin’ for it.’

Jesus Christ. This man needs to be locked up and the key thrown to a colony of clickers.

The inner contractor in Joel comes out to play as he climbs deftly up the extension ladder propped up against the eaves, gloves on and a tarp bag tied to the top rung for collecting the debris. Discreetly, you shuffle around the freestanding sink so that you have a clear view of him as you turn on the water and start washing the dirt off the onions.

He’s starting close by, just a couple of feet away from you, patiently scooping out the dead leaves and twigs by the handful. Up on the ladder with his side to you, you’re eye level with the swell of his belly, which stretches the seams of the vest, and the underside of it peeks out every time he reaches up for the gutters. Your cheeks warm with the memory of how the soft folds felt against you, so warm and solid that you ache to reach out, push the flimsy vest up and nuzzle the tender skin with your nose -

It takes you a couple of minutes to realise that you’re not even pretending to be washing the onions anymore, the hose running in your idle grasp as you stare, head cocked to one side.

You don’t hear him when he turns to you. ‘Can pass me the hose?’

You stare dumbly back at him. ‘Huh?’

‘The hose, Pin,’ he repeats, a playful condescension in his smirk, like he knows exactly what you’ve been looking at. ‘That onion looks sparkly clean.’

You’re not sure what happened. One second you’re holding onto the hose with the intention of turning off the water before passing it to Joel, but your brain skips that crucial first step, and the next thing you know, you’re pointing it straight at him, spraying him in water from face to chest.

As he splutters, you shove the hose into the sink and screech, mortified. ‘Oh my god! I’m so sorry!’

You watch in horror as the water trickles from his hair, down his stubbled chin and onto his chest - okay, that’s a lie. It’s definitely not horror that’s twisting in your tummy and then much, much lower between your thighs.

And if you thought this man looked good sweaty, well - you’ve seen nothing yet.

He might as well put you out of your misery and take off his undervest right about now. It’s completely see-through, pebbled nipples and the firm ridges of his pecs showing through the wet fabric, rounded out by the endearing soft pouch of his belly.

He wears the early summer tan so well, and for the first time since the outbreak, you think about the swim club in your old neighbourhood. Watching the water drip off his skin, it’s not a stretch to imagine this man pulling himself out of the pool after a quick dip to cool down, before stretching out on a sunlounger to dry in the sun - all in slow motion, set to the track of a corny sax riff.

‘I’m sorry,’ you say on reflex, but the apology rings hollow with the way your gaze lingers over his chest, and he notices.

He chuckles, carding one hand through his wet hair to slick it back, standing taller under your eyes. ‘As I said - never a dull moment with you, sweetheart.’

Joel takes his time, clearing out all the blockages and hosing the gutters clean so that you don’t have to worry about them for another six months. He dumps the leaves and sticks in the compost post, rinses the soiled gloves and his hands clean, before taking his shirt off the washing line and heading into the blessed shade.

He finds you in the kitchen, back to the door, putting away clean plates and cutlery from the drying rack, porcelain knocking together and metal clanging.

This is the most he’s seen of you, in a tank top and shorts, bathed in light spilling in from the large windows that open out into the backyard. He sees touches of your workshop right here in the kitchen - dried herbs and seasoning in mismatched but tidy boxes on the shelves, knives organised by size on a magnetic knife block, plates and bowls arranged in neat stacks behind glass cabinets.

Not wanting to alarm you, he deliberately scrapes his shoe on the tiled floor to make his presence known.

Whipping around - and just a touch startled - you smile with a quiet hey, and Joel’s not sure if he’ll ever get over how the sweet shyness still clings to the curve of your lips despite the fact that he’s kissed you right there.

He stays by the door for now and says, ‘I put the ladder back, and the gutters are all done, but I spotted some shingles missing on the roof while I was up there. I’ll come back to fix ‘em some other time.’

‘Thank you so much Joel, but really, don’t worry about the roof. You’ve done enough.’

‘You basically got Ellie outta my hair every Saturday for the next few months, so I’ll have plenty of time to kill,’ he half-jokes.

A comfortable lull sets in, and he looks up at the ticking clock, surprised that it’s almost noon. Shifting his feet, he opens his mouth and is about to excuse himself when you blurt out, ‘I’m sorry I soaked you.’

The jury's out on who's more taken aback by your phrasing. Exasperated, you groan, ‘I did not mean to say that.’

Joel’s kept a respectful distance since he arrived at the house, the pliant weight of you in his arms and your taste on his tongue kept firmly at bay in the back of his mind, not wanting to bring up anything that would make you uncomfortable in the light of day. But now, he pushes himself off the threshold of the door and crosses the cosy kitchen, pleased that you stay put when he plants himself in front of you, toe to toe.

Brushing a finger under your chin so that you’re staring up at him, he deliberately pitches his voice low and gruff, the double entendre almost crude in its delivery. ‘Just so we’re clear, you can soak me any time, sweetheart, in any way you want.’

Your lips part and your gaze darkens, and he feels his body instinctively react, invisible threads reeling him bodily into you. When you speak, your voice quivers, his name at once a single-worded reprimand and a needy whine that takes him right back to his brother’s spare bedroom. ‘Joel -’

‘Yes, Pin?’ he baits you playfully, just like he did that night, taking one last step so that you’re crowded against the countertop, bookending you with his palms planted on the wooden surface.

Finally shedding that last bit of shyness holding you back, you retort with no real bite, ‘You’re such a tease, Miller.’

‘Don’t pretend you don’t enjoy it,’ he quips easily, his attention on your mouth. He hears your shaky intake of air, the whole moment suspended on tenterhooks as you skirt each other on the brink -

Just then, a breeze drifts in from the open window above the sink, providing instant relief from the humidity that hangs heavy in the air. All of a sudden, he’s acutely aware of the fact that he’s sweaty all over, so much so that he might actually smell.

Self-conscious, he clears his throat and murmurs ‘I should probably go, I need a shower and a change of clothes -’

‘You can shower here,’ you interrupt, stumbling over your words in your haste. ‘I have a spare shirt somewhere.’

You don’t need to ask him twice.

He smiles. ‘Sounds good, sweetheart.’

Your ensuite bathroom, like what he has seen of your house, is clean and organised. There’s a neat stockpile of soap bars in the cupboard, and he spots the familiar bottles of regulation shampoo and toothpaste that the town mass produces.

The water is plenty hot as he efficiently lathers himself top to bottom and front to back, but the pressure is a bit weak for his liking and can be easily fixed. Something else to add to the list.

The towel you left on the rack is soft and smells like the sun. Patting himself dry and rubbing it through his hair, he wipes away the condensation off the mirror above the sink. He peers at his reflection, ruminating that it’s time for a shave, and pushes back his wet hair so the strands don’t get in his eyes.

Out of his clothes, only his jeans are passably dry, so he forgoes his boxers and pulls them on, carefully doing up the zipper. Using his shirt as a sling, he bundles up all the dirty clothes and opens the bathroom door.

He catches you coming into the bedroom as he steps out, and your jaw drops at the sight of him in just his jeans before you slap your palms dramatically over your eyes, the tshirt you’re holding onto covering your whole face and muffling your voice. ‘I’m so sorry! I should’ve knocked!’

Joel chuckles at your reaction. ‘Sweetheart, it's your house. And I’m not exactly naked.’

Lowering your hands sheepishly, you still clutch the tshirt to your chest like a security blanket, admitting, ‘Sorry, I just - I just realised I’ve never had a man in here before.’

Something wraps itself around his stomach and pulls, and it takes him a beat to put a name to it because it’s been so long. It’s possessiveness that rushes through his veins and goes straight to his head, and he has to bite the inside of his mouth to keep his voice from wavering. He demands, ‘Never?’

‘Never.’

He lets the word wash over him, appeasing the beast in him for now. With a slow nod, he takes three measured steps towards you, stopping just an arm’s length away. Gently coaxing you to let go of the purple tshirt, he snorts at the huge Lakers logo blazoned across the front.

He quips, ‘I’m more of a Longhorns fan myself, actually.’

The tension cracks, and you grin back, ‘Well, not anymore.’

After your confession, it’s probably redundant, but he wants to hear you say it. Flashing the tshirt at you, he asks, ‘Old boyfriend’s?’

It’s the most personal question that’s been exchanged between you so far by a mile, and it’s probably none of his business, but you can’t explain why your pulse spikes at the way his normally warm gaze hardens with something unfamiliar.

‘No,’ you answer. ‘I keep some of the stock here when there’s not enough room at the shop, that’s all.’

Joel rasps, ‘Good.’

With that one syllable, his shoulders visibly relax, suddenly drawing your attention to his topless form, which you’ve been too mortified to actually look at. It’s a lot to take in, and even though you’ve seen most of him already, there is one conspicuous part that you haven’t yet -

But before your eyes can trail that low, Joel turns. ‘Thanks, I appreciate it. I’ll just -’

You’re slow to catch onto why he trails off in the middle of the sentence, still far too distracted by his general state of undress to notice until he’s already made his way to the top of your neatly made bed. And then you see it…

The flannel peeking out from underneath the duvet.

Oh. Fuck.

With an almost flippant flick of his wrist, Joel peels back the corner of the bedspread. Wordlessly, he stares down at the red plaid shirt he lent you at the baby shower, tucked snugly in your bed, buried half under your pillow.

He stares at it for so long that you interrupt the silence for once.

‘I’ve been meaning to return it,’ you squeak, hands flailing awkwardly, desperately wanting something to hold onto. ‘I just - forgot.’

Joel half-turns to you, arching an eyebrow. ‘You’ve been keepin’ it in your bed?’

Backed into a corner - and you’re not proud of it - you lie. Outrageously. ‘I don’t know how it got in there.'

He picks up the shirt by the collar. It’s wrinkled all over and obviously worn in. He smirks, ‘I’m not so sure about that.’

You’re this close to swivelling around and making a break for it, but as soon as your axis of balance tilts backwards, Joel grabs you by the wrist and pulls you in, hauling you firmly into his bare chest.

‘You’ve been wearin’ it to sleep, haven’t you?’ he asks in a tone that brooks no argument.

Your fingers curl into his chest, his skin blazing warm under your palms. There’s no point fibbing anymore, and you admit, ‘Yes.’

His voice is hoarse when he asks, ‘You wear anythin’ underneath it, sweetheart?’

You hold your breath for one long moment, the tension in the room swelling so quickly that your ears pop. Eventually, under his patient yet heated stare, you shake your head, lips sealed.

His pupils dilate and his nostrils flare, and you feel his grip on your hips tighten.

‘No bra?’ he prompts.

‘No bra,’ you parrot back.

His jaw clenches so tightly that you’re surprised he manages to articulate his next question. ‘No panties?’

‘No panties -’

You barely get the word out before Joel is kissing you, pushing the syllables right back into your mouth until you swallow them with a whimper.

And then he’s pulling back, growling against yours, ‘And what do you do naked in my shirt, hmm?’

You stutter, ‘I - I think about you -’

An undignified squeal escapes you when he suddenly spins you around, your back hitting the bed, denying you the chance to catch your breath. The ceiling fan turns directly above you, but it does nothing to quell the heat between your bodies as Joel clambers over you on his hands and knees, sliding his mouth over yours again in a hard kiss.

You always thought your bed was a decent size, but now, with the bulk of this man hovering over you, you’re not so sure anymore. His ridiculously wide shoulders fill your entire field of vision, and even though he’s holding himself up with his forearms by your ears, you can almost feel the full weight of him through sheer anticipation of his touch.

His heated words brush by your ear, making you shudder. ‘Tell me what you think about, sweetheart.’

‘Your arms, your shoulders -’ you hesitate, dropping your voice shyly. ‘Your belly.’

Joel looks taken aback. ‘My belly?’

You duck your head almost guiltily. ‘Yes.’

His brows draw together in an endearingly confused frown. ‘Why?’

‘That time in the workshop, when we met, you were sucking it in so hard you could hardly breathe - but you don’t anymore.’

The dots connect, and his lips part in an oh. ‘I didn’t even realise.’

‘I know. That’s why it’s sexy,’ you point out.

He looks at you incredulously, as if you’ve lost your mind. ‘My belly is sexy?’

You grin. ‘Yes, and your confidence. You walk differently now, you know.’

He makes a noise at the back of his throat, a self-satisfied smirk tilting his lips upwards. ‘You been watchin’ me?’

‘Maybe,’ you tease.

You exhale long and heavy through your nose when he sucks delicately on your bottom lip, opening you up so that he can dip inside, stealing a taste of your tongue with his.

‘Been thinkin’ about you all week, sweetheart,’ he whispers, trailing fire across your cheek and the hollow behind your ear.

‘I haven’t seen you around at all,’ you whine, tipping your head back as he nudges the tip of his proud nose down your throat.

‘I know, it took three fuckin’ days to clean up after the party,’ he complains, his disgruntled tone prompting a giggle from you. ‘Never again.’

‘I’m not so sure about that. There will be plenty of birthday parties to look forward to, Uncle Joel -’

An open-mouthed kiss on the side of your neck catches you off guard, the unfamiliar texture of the wet suction and scrape of his teeth jolts you clean off the mattress, sending you body slamming into his ribcage.

Joel hums, pleased at your reaction. ‘So sensitive. I’ve barely touched you yet, sweetheart.’

It’s immediate, the shame that burns under your skin at his remark despite knowing he doesn’t mean anything by it, and Joel frowns at the way you stiffen under him. Regret colours his words as he cups your cheek. ‘Pin, I’m sorry, that came out wrong -’

‘No, that’s the thing. You’re not wrong,’ you interrupt with a shake of your head. There’s no point denying it - you’re a grown woman, and there’s something fundamentally embarrassing about losing touch with that part of yourself over the years. ‘I - it’s been so long, I don’t even know my own body anymore.’

His eyes dip downwards and slowly, over the curve of your breasts and the arch of your back. With an encouraging smile, he argues, ‘I’m not sure about that. Looks like your body’s reactin’ perfectly to me.’

Your lips twitch despite yourself. ‘You’re just saying that to get into my pants.’

He takes the unexpected turn in the conversation in stride and runs with it. ‘Trust me, sweetheart, if I were tryin’, I’d already be in them.’

‘You’re such an ass, Joel Miller.’

His roguish grin has you squirming and fisting the sheets underneath you. ‘I dunno. Somethin’ tells me you like it.’

Wrapping one palm on the back of his neck, you drag him into you again, relishing in the weight of him as he pins you to the bed with the broad frame of his shoulders. He moans into your mouth, claiming it with deep strokes of his tongue, while his calloused palms sneak under the hem of your shirt and pull you into him by the small of your back.

Even as your hips buck, begging for friction, Joel holds back, propping himself up on his knees to keep a tenuous grip on his self-control. Pulling back from your lips with a wet pop, he assures you through heavy breaths, ‘We can stop any time, sweetheart. Just say the word.’

Your response comes fast and sure, but he can read the hesitance between the lines, ‘I - I don’t want to stop.’

He presses a patient kiss to your lips, but backs away before you can deepen it. ‘How about this - we’ll flip you over so that you’re on top, and you decide what you want to do. Is that ok?’

You pause to consider his proposal, sliding your tongue over your bottom lip - he’s this close to kissing you right there and then. You ask shyly, ‘And it’s ok if we - you know, just make out?’

He smiles. ‘I can do with some good old-fashioned neckin’.’

‘Ok then -’

You yelp when Joel turns you over without warning, the sudden movement making your head spin. Sitting up against the headboard, he drags you in his lap and asks, ‘Alright?’

You nod with a nervous smile. It’s intimidating, being so close to him that there’s nowhere else to look but into his thoughtful eyes that are watching you for any signs of discomfort. Catching your breath, you settle into the moment and realise that you’re straddling him, hands clinging onto his shoulders, knees sinking into the mattress on either side of his hips. His belly is warm and soft where he’s pressed up against you, but lower, nudging insistently between your legs -

Joel is hard.

The revelation robs you of air, want and need rushing like blood to your head, and you stiffen, not knowing what to do.

Joel catches on - you’re beginning to think that nothing ever escapes him - and he reminds you, ‘Just kissin’, ok, sweetheart?’

Snapping out of your freeze frame, you nod, ‘Yes. Ok.’

Giving you somewhere to start, he prompts, ‘Where do you want my hands?’

Tugging on his wrists, you watch his jaw go slack when you place his palms squarely on your ass, where your denim shorts hardly cover the top of your thighs. He lets out a lewd moan at the way your soft curves fill his hands, fingers squeezing and kneading greedily, and you push your hips back into his contact.

‘Not so shy after all, hmm?’ he rasps.

You preen at his praise, and riding the wave of boldness, you tip forward and press your lips to Joel’s before you could overthink it. Over the roar of blood in your ears, you hear him suck in a shaky breath, and you feel the deep groan in his throat taper into a whimper when you swipe your tongue into his mouth.

You’re completely unprepared for the power the sound unleashes in you.

Somewhere in your consciousness, a door is cracked open, and memory crackles at the edges of your mind. Each shuddered breath shared, every slide of skin on skin, brings to the surface what you thought you’d forgotten.

Your fingers burrow into the still wet locks at his nape, earning a loud moan from Joel when you pull on the grays that have distracted you on more than one occasion. He nips his way sloppily down your neck, trailing spit and beard burn as he goes, while your palms skate over his chest and down, down, down until your fingernails drag over the pliant folds of his tummy, hanging over the waistband of his jeans.

‘Sweetheart,’ he groans brokenly at the contact, forehead knocking into yours.

Spreading your fingers over soft flesh, you choke on an inhale when he bodily rocks into your palms. Your thumb catches the hollow of his belly button, fingers tenderly squeezing the creases and dimples of his belly. His eyes crack open under tightly knitted eyebrows, vulnerability etched in every line on his face.

Something shifts - something that neither of you can take back. And suddenly, it’s not just kissing anymore.

Caught somewhere between writhing instinctively under his touch and a deliberate pursuit of friction, your hips find a rhythm that has the seat of your panties quickly twisting and dampening as you grind on the erection straining against the zipper of his jeans.

Blunt nails bite into your thighs as Joel growls, ‘Shit, sweetheart. That’s it.’

You want to bury your face in his neck, feeling too wanton in the way you’re panting in needy whimpers, but he preempts that on no uncertain terms. ‘I want to see everythin’. Look at me.’

You do just that - you can’t deny this man even if you tried - watching him watch you with his pupils blown wide and wild, wetting his bottom lip the same time his eyes drop to your tits, as if he can see right through the thin fabric. He doesn’t touch you anywhere else though, his hands staying where you put them. You can feel his grip dig harder and harder into the swell of your ass, but he doesn’t try to change your rhythm, giving you free rein to ride him any way you need.

When your peripheral vision starts to go, you know it’s not a coincidence that your thoroughly soaked panties shift and strain against your clit, pinching it just so that you cry out, hips faltering.

Joel bares his teeth, and you feel his hips rut upwards into you, his restraint slipping. ‘There you go. You’re close, aren’t you?’

You can only nod, frantically grinding into him now, your whole mind narrowing until the only thought that remains is chasing that high that you can almost taste. Everything swells, electricity fills the air, his name a sacred chant on your tongue as you claw at his back, teetering precariously on the brink of something that promises to devastate you.

‘Joel, Joel, Joel -’

He catches you when you break - you fling yourself at him, knocking into him so hard that the back of his head hits the wall, but he doesn’t even flinch. Tucked safely into the crook of his neck, you whine and wail as you thrash in his hold, and his nostrils flare at your scent. He can smell you, he can smell the slick leaking from your pussy, humid and heady in the air between you, making his mouth water as he aches to taste you - all of you.

One day.

Right now, the hinge of his jaw almost cracks as you milk the last remnants of your orgasm with a needy swivel of your hips, rubbing against his cock at an angle that makes his vision swim, and he knows he’s too far gone. His control slips like shifting sands, and a primal instinct takes over as he bucks roughly into you, fingertips leaving imprints in your skin that you will feel for days after.

‘Oh fuck, sweetheart, wait, I’m - shit, I’m gonna -’

When it hits him, it’s fucking relentless - he cums and cums until his voice goes hoarse with your name, until it feels like his abdomen would cave in and collapse, spurting and spilling until it feels like he’s turned inside out. It goes everywhere, thick, milky strands filling the gaps in his jeans and sliding down his legs in a sticky mess, and he slumps bonelessly into the headboard, panting against your lips as he catches his breath.

Sweetly, gently, he tilts his chin up just enough to kiss you, his nose nudging your cheek intimately when he pulls away, his lungs too deprived of air to keep going. He winces when you shift above him, knowing that you can feel the wet spot pooling under your bare thighs.

Joel breaks the sluggish silence first, cracking a grin. ‘So much for just makin’ out.’

You clumsily climb off his lap and crash land sideways onto the mattress. ‘Is that a complaint, Joel Miller?’

He drapes a heavy arm over you and pulls back you flush into him. ‘Well, these jeans are fuckin’ ruined. I want a refund.’

‘I’m afraid we don’t accept cum-stained returns. Store policy.’

He pffts. ‘Damnit. Should’ve read the fine print.’

You grin. ‘Well, at least there's something deeply poetic about cumming in the jeans that I picked out for you.’

‘Touché, sweetheart,’ he grunts and presses a kiss to your forehead. Glancing down at the unmistakable wet patch on the denim, he asks hopefully, ‘Any chance you got some pants I can borrow?’

Ellie bounces her leg irritably, hunched over on the stairs exactly where Joel was sitting this morning. Where the fuck is he? He’s twenty minutes late, and he had the nerve to get all huffy when she lied about the start time today. Unbelievable.

Moodily looking left and right, there’s still no sign of him. She’s about to give up and wait for him at home when something conspicuously purple comes to a stop in front of her.

Her jaw hits the floor.

‘Oh. My. God.’

She’s never been high before, but she’s pretty sure this is the stuff hallucinations are made of.

This being Joel Miller in a purple tshirt with a tacky logo she doesn’t recognise printed on the front and khaki cargo shorts that cut off at the knees, holding a basket of vegetables that she’s pretty sure he doesn’t eat.

With a roll of his eyes, he snaps, ‘Shut your mouth, you’re trappin’ flies.’

Pasting on the most obnoxious grin she can muster, Ellie croons, ‘Man, don’t you look pretty.’

Turning on his heel, Joel starts walking without looking back. ‘Shut up.’

Jogging to keep up, she cackles, ‘Hey, did you fall into a wormhole and went shopping at a farmer’s market in 1999?’

‘Shut up.’

‘You really should wear shorts more often, y’know, show off those knees. And purple really is your colour, Barney!’

Joel frowns, shooting her a sidelong glare. ‘How the hell do you know who Barney is?’

Ellie shrugs. ‘What do you think they teach us at school?’

He’s the one who starts it. The quake in his shoulders would have been imperceptible to anyone else, but nowadays, there’s not much that he can hide from her. As usual, she giggles first, which trails into a squeal when Joel gives her a shove on the back, sending her stumbling over her shoes.

‘Fuck you, man!’ she snickers and basically rugby tackles him, but he barely budges, lips pulling back into a toothy grin.

Across the street, unbeknownst to the pair, Tommy smiles to himself as he watches his big brother laugh, really laugh - the kind that has him doubling over and gasping for air through watery eyes. For the first time since the world ended, he looks up at the sky with a reassuring nod, and he knows deep down - Joel will be just fine.

Notes: You guys continue to blow me away with your support - I cannot be more grateful for all the reblogs, asks and interaction with my silly Behind the Seams posts and random updates. Thank you so so much for reading, I hope you enjoyed this chapter, and I can't wait to hear what you think ❤️

I will be having a think over the next few weeks about where Seams will go from here. This chapter wraps up the first mini story arc, and I'll be dedicating August to wrapping up my Palomino series, so it will give me some time and distance to mull over what's next for Joel and Pin. I'm also a few followers away from a big milestone, so I might have something fun planned! 🥰

#fuckyeahseams #seams iv #the last of us fanfiction #tlou fanfiction #joel miller x you #joel miller x reader #joel miller x f!reader #joel miller x fem!reader #joel miller x female reader #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller imagine

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krillissue · 9 months

Text

Forbidden Fruit

I took a look at my Vampire Vash and Vampire Wolfwood and thought, "Hey, I should write something with them together!" And then a friend jokingly suggested an X Reader so, here it is! A Vashpire/Vampwood crossover sandwich.

Reader uses he/him pronouns but I tried to keep everything vague (this is my first try at an x reader so please be kind) There is no use of y/n, I use instead nicknames (little lamb, sweetheart, darling, baby)

No major warnings, other than blood drinking and shady make outs in a dingy alley. There's gratuitous flirting, praise, slight possessiveness, mild public indecency, alcohol. 4K words

M for Mature content

It was a still night, the rain-soaked streets reflecting the streetlights and made anyone out scurry for cover. You ducked into a seedy-looking dive bar, the red neon sign by the door a fangy smile but no name you could see. Shaking out your damp hair, you take a glance around. The interior was dim with numerous neon signs shedding different-colored pools of light around the patrons. No one seemed to pay you mind as you slowly made your way to the bar, figuring you might as well get a drink while you wait out the rain and warm up.

“What’ll it be?” The bartender was a stern redhead, her piercing blue eyes seeming to look straight through you. You search the chalked menu behind her, looking for anything that sounded good but there were too many options. You opened your mouth to order but a gruff voice cut you off before you could get a word out.

“Don’t order off the specials, darlin’. You won’t like ‘em.” The man that had slid up next you was tall, dark, and handsome. You could smell his leather jacket and musky cologne even without the arm boxing you in. He was pressed close to your ear, leaning down to whisper. “What’s a lost little lamb like you doing in a place like this?”

“Take it easy on him!” Another man took up position on your other side, this one blonde and smiling. “The poor thing probably just wanted out of the rain. Isn’t that right?” His blue eyes were hidden behind yellow shades but they were open and earnest. You trusted him a bit more than “dark and broody” beside you.

“Yeah...do you have any recommendations?” Blondie gave you a sweet smile and it filled you with warmth but not to be ignored, you felt a rough finger trace lightly across the back of your neck.

“Spikey always wants something sweet. Are you sweet, little lamb?”

“That’s enough, Wolf. Back off.” The bartender shooed him off with a cold glare before her features softened towards you again. “I can mix you whatever you want. And we have beer on tap if that’s more your speed.” You nod, grateful to have some breathing room. The so-called Wolf was gorgeous in black leather and an open dark red shirt, most of his hairy chest on display. Being the target of his attention had set your heart racing like a frightened rabbit but you’d be lying if you said he wasn’t the sexiest man you’d ever seen. You ordered and took your drink to a small round table, just planning on people-watching. A particularly rowdy table near the back kept catching your attention, the group all yelling excitedly about something to an almost frenzied level.

The longer you sat however, you noticed several patrons watching you back. Not all of them looked friendly. Curiously, Wolf and Blondie kept close but still gave you space, always in your periphery. It was starting to set your nerves on edge, everyone eyeing you like a piece of meat.

“Can I sit with you?” Blondie was smiling still, pointing to the chair beside you. With the neon pink and blue lights on his pretty face you finally noticed, he had a nice smile. Why were these two gorgeous boys wanting to sit with you? They clearly knew each other but weren’t mixing with anyone else at the bar. It wasn’t exactly suspicion at their intentions giving you pause but something felt off.

“If you want to. Your friend going to join us, too?”

“He’s not so bad, is he?” He took his seat and smiled toothily, his own drink dangling by his fingertips. “My name is Vash, it’s nice to meet you.” What a weird name. You told him yours in return and took a sip, waiting for the looming shadow of the Wolf to appear.

A large cool hand settled on the back of your neck, gently squeezing. It could only be one man getting so friendly with you. He leaned down over your shoulder to grin, his dark eyes mostly hidden behind his shades. Why were these two wearing sunglasses indoors and at night?

“You looked lonely all by yourself, little lamb.” You stiffened at his presence behind your back but he moved to the seat on your other side, his posture relaxed and open. “You gotta be careful wandering into a place like this. Not everyone’s so friendly.”

“Like you?” The alcohol gave you a boldness you wouldn’t normally possess but his cocky grin was starting to get under your skin. He chuckled, unphased.

“You’ve got better chances with the wolves than these fine folks, I’ll tell ya that.” He took out a heavy silver lighter and started flipping it open and closed, the light catching on its shiny surface. You thought you’d smelled cigarette smoke clinging to him earlier.

Taking another glance around, there did seem to be some pretty hungry-looking characters lurking around. A sharp-eyed lanky figure with too many silver chains and black clothing was chatting up an equally intimidating red-haired fox-faced person, both of them smirking like the cat that ate the canary. And a white-haired man with his finger hooked through the collar of the person beside him kept winking at you, a cocky grin to rival Wolf’s.

They all seemed to shy away with Vash and Wolf on either side of you, though. Scary dog privileges? Well, at least one scary dog. Vash was more of a golden retriever than anything. You could practically see his tail wagging as he smiled at you both.

“You’re scaring him!” Vash playfully chastised his companion, leaning forward on the table. “They aren’t so bad. They just aren’t used to...someone like you coming in here.” You bristled at his implication but he was so sweet and unassuming. It didn’t seem like he was trying to insult you.

“Sweet little thing like you, you should be grateful we picked you up.” He swiped Vash’s untouched drink from his dangling fingers and knocked it back before offering his hand to shake. “Nicholas D. Wolfwood, at your service. I specialize in looking after lost lambs.” You took his hand and noted again how his skin was cool to the touch. Shouldn’t it really have warmed up by now? The strangeness of the evening was starting to make your head spin but it really did seem like these two were looking out for you. They were subtle about it but both were giving little warning glances at anyone that got a little too close or stared too long.

“Do you want another drink?” Vash snapped you out of your thoughts with a point to your empty glass. You nodded stiffly, wanting something to settle your nerves a bit more.

“So...why’s everyone staring at me? Are you all in a club or something?” Wolfwood smirked at your question, flicking his tongue out to lick his lip.

“In a way.” He gestured to a pale blue sign on the other side of the bar in the shape of a blinking eye, or maybe it was winking, there was only the one. “Most people who come here are part of the Eye. We all know each other, more or less. You’re a fresh face.”

“And that’s bad?”

“Oh, no, it’s good. Everyone wants a piece of fresh meat.” He licked his teeth then, his canines a little sharper than they had any right to be. You had to admit he lived up to his “Wolf” nickname well. “Blondie and I just wanted to make sure a pretty thing like you didn’t get torn to shreds.” The thought sent your heart racing but not from fear exactly. You couldn’t stop thinking about those fangs of his at your throat.

Before your thoughts could get away from you too much, Vash returned with a refill, the glass held in a strange metallic hand. A prosthetic, you assumed. It was a work of art, really. You wondered what it would feel like against your skin. You tried to shake your head clear of that particular train of thought. Sure, these two were handsome and friendly but nothing was going to happen. Not with you.

Right?

The three of you chatted while you sipped your second drink, your thoughts only getting more muddled the longer they kept giving you their attention. You felt a bit like a rabbit caught in a snare, their sharp grins and teasing remarks going straight down south. Vash was friendly and asked you endless questions, and as he got more comfortable, he started finding excuses to touch you. His fingers were just as cool as Wolfwood’s but you didn’t have much room to wonder about it when he was looking at you like you were the only person in the room.

And Wolfwood, he refused to be ignored. Anytime Vash had your attention too long, he’d drag it back to himself. He was bolder with touching you, unsurprisingly. But you found yourself leaning into it the more he did it. It started to feel like the two of them were playing a game, trying to one-up the other. All you cared about was that you seemed to be the prize. You’d happily get out of here with either one but it seemed they wouldn’t be satisfied until you chose.

“Do you want another drink?” Vash turned your face back towards him, his fingers gently hooked under your chin. His big blue eyes were half-lidded and his smile sly. You were practically melting in your seat but shook your head. The last thing you needed was alcohol loosening your lips any more than they already were.

“You’re really pretty,” You found yourself saying anyway, Vash’s angelic face tinted in pinks and blues and the orange of his glasses. His eyes got all squinty with his warm smile, his thumb gently brushing your bottom lip.

“You’re sweet, aren’t you? But I think you’re the pretty one here. I could just eat you up.” Vash started to pull you closer and for a moment you thought he’d kiss you but Wolfwood’s hand rested on your neck. He pulled you back towards him, his fingers scratching pleasantly into your nape.

“What about me? Am I pretty?” He said it with a big enough smirk that you could tell he was teasing. But fuck it, you’d compliment him too. Didn’t want the big guy feeling left out.

“You’re sexy.” Your face flamed for the boldness but you might as well go all in. “Like, you look like a mistake I’d happily make.”

“Oh, sweet thing. I don’t bite. Not unless you want me to.” His dark eyes peeked out over his shades, his fangs glinting in the red light pooling over him. Fangs. Fangs. At last, your overheated brain connected the dots. Too late, you realized what all of these feral grins turned your way meant.

“I wouldn’t complain.” What had gotten into you? Alcohol makes you too honest. Vash chuckled beside you, leaning in close to your ear.

“I wouldn’t be so quick to volunteer. He’s greedy.” They met eyes, Wolfwood glaring.

“And you aren’t? I spotted him first.”

“He likes me better,” Vash sounded smug, pressing a soft kiss near your ear. “Don’t you, sweetheart?”

“H-hey, you’re both hot as fuck! I don’t think I could choose.” Wolfwood took you from Vash’s gentle grip and nipped your ear, his fangs just barely scraping.

“But you’d choose me, right?” This was quickly getting to be too much. Your whole body felt like it was on fire, these two gorgeous devils driving you crazy. You stood, planting your hands firmly on the table to steady on your slightly unbalanced legs.

“I think... I should probably get some air.”

“We’ll join you.” Vash stood as well, his lanky height suddenly making you feel smaller than you are.

“I could use a smoke.” Wolfwood got to his feet as well and stuck an unlit cigarette between his teeth. “Lead the way, lamb. We’ll follow.”

This hadn’t exactly been your plan but it didn’t seem like you were getting away from either of them any time soon. You made your way carefully towards the door, the two vampires flanking you. That’s what they were, you were certain of it now. Everyone in the bar was probably nonhuman, now that knew what to look for. The air outside had grown colder with the rain, and the drops were still pattering softly. You shivered, but continued around to the side where there was a bit of an overhang and Wolfwood’s smoke wouldn’t be right by the door.

He lit up, his dark eyes pinning you to the wall over his shades. Without the lights from the signs in the bar, you could tell there was a red glow deep in them. Wolfwood offered you the pack with a smirk.

“You want one?”

“No, thanks.” I just wanted to follow you into this dark alley, you thought to yourself. Vash sidled up to you, leaning his back against the chilly brick wall. Wolfwood politely blew his smoke downwind from you both, unbothered by the rain slowly weighing down his shaggy mane.

“Are you cold?” Vash’s pretty face was pinched in concern and before you could answer, he slung his arm around you. He wasn’t much warmer than the air around you but his torso blocked some of the biting wind. Pressed so close to him, you could finally discern his more mild scent. It was something citrusy and warm, maybe oranges? You tried not to give away the deep inhale but he just chuckled and hugged you a bit tighter.

“Are ya feelin’ better, lamb?” Wolfwood joined you both, his cigarette forgotten dangling from his lips. “Your head feelin’ a little clearer?” You did feel more sober out here in the crisp air, the hazy lights and hypnotic music from the bar just an afterimage in your mind. But these two still had an intoxicating presence to them, especially when they kept speaking to you in their soft sweet voices.

“I know what you want from me,” You mumbled, shrinking further into Vash’s jacket. It was warm, the rough canvas thick and comforting. “I figured it out, you’re both vampires, aren’t you?” You expected them to laugh or refute you but they just shared a smile, both of their fangs on display.

“Very good, sweetheart.” Vash thumbed your chin again, turning your face up towards him. His blue eyes had a kind of glow to the irises, shining through his orange shades. “You wandered into the wolves’ den without realizing. You’re lucky we were here tonight.”

“Plenty of them wouldn’t be so careful with a pretty little thing like you.” Wolfwood had propped himself against the wall by his arm, effectively blocking you in against Vash’s chest. He loomed over you but kept enough distance to not touch you for now.

“You just want my blood, right? That’s what all of this is?” You started to feel anger bubbling up. Not just because they’d been toying with you all night but because you had started to believe it. But they were just hungry and you should leave. You shoved away from Vash and got a few steps down the alley before you stopped and looked back at them.

They weren’t chasing after you. They were having a quiet exchange you couldn’t hear, both of their expressions disappointed but not at all what you expected. Maybe you had wanted them to come after you, just a little. It stung, the thought that they didn’t even want your blood. You turned again to leave but Vash called out your name, his shuffling footsteps bringing him closer.

“Wait, it’s not what you think.” You whirled around, catching him by surprise.

“Then what is it, huh? Explain it to me.” You crossed your arms as you waited for an explanation. Vash looked sheepish, glancing back at Wolfwood who gave him a “go on'' gesture.

“We do want a drink, that’s true. But we aren’t monsters, we aren’t going to take you by force.”

“So the flirting was just a lie? To convince me to let you bite me?”

“Not entirely!” Vash held up both his hands, smiling nervously. He looked again at Wolfwood for help but he seemed pleased just watching. “I-- We both like you. You’re not just a meal we’re trying to share.”

“You don’t even know me,” You said with an eye roll.

“Call it a feeling, then. I can tell you’re something special.” Vash offered his gloved hand then, looking all the world like an apologetic angel. “You can always say no, we won’t force you.” You looked at Wolfwood over his shoulder and he beckoned with his hooked finger, making your stomach clench. You wanted to believe their honeyed words spoken with their forked tongues. Sure, maybe it was a little exploitative, but you weren’t getting nothing in return. Call it mutually beneficial.

You took Vash’s offered hand and he pulled you back towards where Wolfwood was waiting. Vash backed up against the wall but pulled you against his chest this time, his long-fingered hands resting on your waist. His usual big sunny smile had turned more sultry as he leaned in, nosing gently against your throat. You melted into his touch, a whimper escaping without meaning to. Wolfwood pressed against your back, pinning you both to the wall. His hands were a lot less gentle with you, manhandling your hips to push them back against his. You felt his teeth against your neck before his tongue, his lick making you shiver.

“W-wait, wait,” You pushed against Vash’s chest, trying to get some room to breathe. It momentarily distracted you that Vash’s chest was a lot firmer and broader than it looked under his bulky turtleneck. “You’re both going to bite me?”

“We’ll be careful with you, promise.” Vash was quick to reassure you, rubbing your sides with his thumbs. “You’ll like it, trust me. But if you want us to stop, just say so.”

“Can you-- Can you kiss me? Please?” Vash looked at you fondly, biting his lip to hold in whatever he wanted to say. But he still leaned in and kissed you, his lips soft and cool. It was nice but not what you wanted, especially sandwiched between them. You grabbed his shirt to pull him in, deepening the kiss until he gasped into your mouth. He tasted metallic and sweet, his sweet little fangs just barely dragging against your lip. You wanted more.

“Oh, what a hungry little lamb you are,” Wolfwood praised in your ear, his hands dragging up your shirt, his rough hands scraping over your overheated skin. Or maybe his was just cold? You couldn’t tell anymore, not with Vash’s tongue in your mouth. Wolfwood brought his hand up to cup your throat, not grabbing it hard enough to block your air, and kissed the side, sucking little marks you’d hate him for tomorrow. Maybe. It felt so good, you relaxed back against him. His gruff voice in your ear started murmuring directions, telling you where to touch Vash.

You broke away from his lips when you dove in for his ear, nipping his gold loop earring. He squeezed your waist in his surprise before retaliating with a hand hooking behind your thigh to pull it up around his hip. Like this, you were pressed firmly between them, trapped by both. Vash’s hand squeezed your thigh as he held your leg in place, joining Wolfwood in kissing your neck.

“Stop hoggin’ him, Blondie.” Wolfwood griped over your shoulder, shoving Vash in the shoulder.

“Oh, feeling left out? Jealous he likes me better?” Vash smirked as he pulled you back against his chest, making Wolfwood draw in closer as well.

“You wish, give ‘im here, I’ll show ya.” Wolfwood yanked you by your hips, threatening to rip you from Vash’s arms. “Don’t you wanna kiss me, darlin’?” His voice had tipped a bit into whininess, something that spun your head. They let you turn in their grip so you could face Wolfwood, Vash taking up the task of kissing your neck in his place. It was easy to slip your hands into Wolfwood’s open shirt, his necklaces clinking together pleasantly as you buried your face there, just taking a moment to savor his ample pecs.

When he grew impatient and kissed you, his big hands held your chin and neck in place. He tasted like cigarettes and smoke but you didn’t mind, he devoured your mouth in the sweetest way. His scruff tickled at your skin but you didn’t care, he bit you like he meant it.

“Don’t I get a kiss?” Vash’s soft voice filtered in slowly, your lungs starting to cry out for air the longer Wolfwood took it away. But he broke away to give a sloppy kiss over your shoulder, letting you suck in much needed air.

“Little lamb,” Wolfwood tipped your chin back towards him, licking his lip. “Can we have a taste now? I bet you’re as sweet as you look.” Your thoughts immediately went to your arousal, absolutely nowhere to hide it with them so close. But they meant your blood, obviously. You nodded stiffly, slight disappointment in your eyes. “Oh, that won’t do. I need a verbal agreement and less sadness in those pretty eyes. What’s wrong, baby?”

“Is it too much?” Vash hugged you, resting his chin on your shoulder.

“N-no, it’s just that-- It’ll be over. I don’t want it to be over.”

“Oh, sweetheart,” Vash’s voice was sweet as honey in your ear, his soft lips brushing the shell. “We can take you home, if that’s what you want. All you have to do is ask.”

“Yes! Yes, please? Please, I want that,” The pleas fell from your lips embarrassingly fast but you’d do anything to keep these gorgeous boys kissing you. You grabbed Wolfwood’s shirt to yank him closer, presenting your throat to him.

“Such a good boy,” Wolfwood kissed your neck before finding the place to sink his teeth in. It burned for only a moment and then the warmth started to bloom in your gut. You threaded your fingers into his damp hair, the moisture giving you a firm grip on it. He grunted when you pulled on it, his sucking growing more insistent. But Vash didn’t want to be left out, he was nosing the other side of your neck. He pressed soft kisses before his fangs sank in, the sweet heady warmth making you floaty and limp. Their combined sturdy frames kept you up, but you were certain without them you would have tumbled to the ground.

They drank messily, Vash’s moans breathy and high, Wolfwood’s low grunts. Blood trailed down your neck and made a mess of your clothes but that was the furthest thought from your head. You were pressing your thighs together, desperately trying to relieve the almost-painful building pressure. Vash and Wolfwood were close enough to grind against but it wasn’t enough, far from it. You wanted them inside you. Vash pulled away from your neck first, lapping the little pinpricks closed. Wolfwood needed a bit more convincing but eventually left a farewell kiss there as well.

“Please, please,” You pressed your face into Wolfwood’s chest, legs shaking with how badly you needed something. It was Vash’s hands that found your hips, his slim fingers teasing at your waistband.

“Do you want some help, sweetheart?” You nodded before grabbing Wolfwood’s cheeks, pulling him for more kisses. He happily obliged, occupying your mouth while Vash opened your pants and slipped his hand inside. He was slow at first, casting glances around. But Wolfwood’s mouth muffled your moans and their bulk hid you almost entirely. Vash urged you on with muttered praise, peppering kisses everywhere he could reach from his cramped position. Too quick, you felt your orgasm building, and you desperately gripped at Vash’s wrist. You wanted him to give it to you, you wanted him to draw it out. But he promised, he promised. It wasn’t over with this. You let yourself tip over the edge, making a mess of yourself.

Vash happily licked his fingers clean, holding you up while Wolfwood gave you soft kisses. They let you come down and find your footing again before they stepped away, both smiling wide satisfied grins.

“What do you say, little lamb?”

“Let’s go home, we’re not done yet.”

#trigun fanfiction #trigun smut #reader insert #x reader #masc reader #vash the stampede/nicholas d. wolfwood #vash the stampede/nicholas d. wolfwood/masc reader #vampire au #mouse writes #requested by best friend

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