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trainer-from-unova · 14 hours ago

Text

summer of love

Ⓢ english ao3 Ⓢ spanish ao3 Ⓢ masterlist Ⓢ

ship: robert reynolds x afab!reader

summary: it's summer and bob's birthday is around the corner so the new avengers convinced val to give them a weekend to celebrate his birthday party at the beach. because of your feelings and your strong friendship with him you're the one who organised everything and the one who gifted him more gifts, and one of those gifts it's helping him lose his virginity

au: for plot reasons bob goes to missions but I didn't specify whether he uses his powers to any extent or as a soldier trained by the others

c/w: road and weekend trip, beach and pool episode vibes (from an ecchi anime lmao), topless at the beach, domestic fluff, birthday party, alcohol, drinking games / questions, birthday sex, unsafe piv sex, bob has an oral fixation, biting, nipple play and licking, cunnilingus, face-sitting, masturbation, gentle and rough kissing, virgin!bob, submissive!bob, needy!bob, horny thoughts, praise kink, edging, dacryphilia I guess, multiple orgasms, orgasm control, creampie, friends to lovers, friendship so strong between them that they can joke and laugh during foreplay, third pov, use of y/n (like a lot)

a/n: virgin!bob and face-sitting was a request, and needy and nervous submissive!bob was another one, so I decided to mix them with my ideas: beach episode and birthday party / sex. I don't have experience writing (nor reading) virgin men nor face-sitting nor submissive men / dominant women soooo I tried my best and hope you all like it, also english isn't my first language and for more notes and tags check ao3

word count: 9290

Bob's birthday was around the corner, and pretending they had forgotten to surprise him wasn't an option. ______ knew firsthand how important birthdays were — a before and after, a new beginning. And it wasn't just a celebration of getting a year older, it was a celebration of staying alive. Bob's birthdays (and those of anyone on the team) may not have been joyous in the past, but now he had a family that was glad to have him to celebrate them with.

______ had organised everything weeks in advance, and she was so excited it almost felt like her birthday, but she couldn't help it because she was in love with him. After a lot of begging they managed to get a weekend off all at once, and since it was summer they decided to rent a mansion in the Hamptons on the beachfront for a change of scenery, celebrate Bob's birthday and relax on the beach. Also, since they would probably need them to get around, they decided to go in cars even though going by helicopter or private jet would be faster: ______, Bob, Yelena and Fanny went in one and Bucky, Ava, John and Alexei in another, listening and singing along to the Spotify playlist they all shared, with songs they had all chosen and sometimes also played in the tower while training or doing other things. After about four hours of driving they arrived at the address, were greeted by the owner and took the suitcases out of the cars.

"Be careful with this one, please," ______ asked Bucky as he took one of her suitcases from the boot of the car she'd been in, parked in the courtyard while Bob and the others explored the inside of the mansion. They were probably on the first floor, choosing their bedrooms.

"There's no physiological need to bring so much stuff," said John, nonchalantly hefting some suitcases over his shoulders as they all made their way to the open door to go inside.

"Most of them are presents for Bob," she said in a whisper, slightly embarrassed.

"What did you get him?" asked Alexei, also carrying suitcases on his shoulders.

"The question is, what didn't she buy him?" said Bucky, carrying the suitcase she had indicated as if it was a princess in his arms.

"A little bit of everything, really... I may have overdone it a bit, yeah..."

Maybe then Bob would feel in a bind, wanting to pay her back when it was her birthday, but when it came to thinking and buying the presents she felt they weren't enough, especially considering that being an Avenger she now had plenty of money to spare.

But inside some suitcases she had a lot of snacks, drinks and even ingredients (and Yelena had obviously taken Fanny's feed as well). So they wouldn't have to waste time shopping there, she would make the cake there too, and so as not to waste time cooking they would order food and go to restaurants.

It was around six o'clock on Friday evening when everyone was settled, suitcases unpacked and everything in place, so it was time to start baking the cake, and considering it was a summer Friday the sooner they ordered the better as the food was sure to take a long time to arrive.

"And I'll have a pepperoni pizza," Yelena said finally while Bucky wrote down everything in his mobile phone notes, so that Alexei, who was the one who was going to order by his phone, wouldn't forget anything.

They were all around the kitchen island, and upon hearing his daughter's order Alexei nodded and withdrew with his mobile in one hand and Bucky's mobile in the other to make the call more calmly. Bucky went behind him in case the screen of the mobile was blocked, to unlock it with his fingerprint.

"So who's going to help me bake the cake?" asked ______ as she opened the fridge. There were basic things, like milk and water, that the landlady left for her guests or that others had left before them, so luckily there was no need to go out shopping to make it.

"Me," said Yelena as she went to the drawers in search of utensils.

"And me," said John as he went in search of the aprons where the landlady had said they were.

"Cake?" asked Bob. "Really?" he asked resignedly, since he'd had that conversation with her before and didn't think he needed to repeat it, but deep down he was glad that she was paying so much attention to him for several reasons, among them and above all because he was in love with her. Deep down he couldn't help but smile, a smile that he passed on to the organiser.

"Are you seriously asking me if I'm really going to bake you a cake for your birthday?" She asked the same question as she slammed the fridge shut, holding a huge brick of milk in her hands.

"I said I didn't need to," Bob said as she set the milk down on the counter, next to the utensils Yelena was pulling out of the drawers.

"Shhhh, shut up," she said putting the index finger of her dominant hand in front of her lips as she laughed.

"It's not a proper birthday party if there's no cake, is it?" Ava asked, surveying the scene hunched over the counter while John pulled on an apron.

"If you don't eat the rest of us will eat for you, don't worry," John said half-jokingly but half-seriously as he handed aprons to the girls.

"Yeah, especially him," Ava said to Bob referring to John, since John and the others (including him, even though he was playing hard to get with the cake) were eating like crazy because of their serums.

"Well, then let me help too," said Bob.

"You're the birthday boy, you can't help make the cake," said Yelena as she tied her apron.

"Exactly!" exclaimed ______. "Go to the beach, enjoy yourself," she said to Bob. "Take him," she said to Ava while pointing to the open door towards the beach, and seeing Alexei and Bucky approaching again, she asked them. "Take him."

"Come on, let's go change," Bucky said to Bob, putting his arm around him to walk him towards the stairs. Bob craned his neck to look at ______ resigned but laughing, and she looked at him the same way. Ava and Alexei followed behind them, apart from Alexei reporting that the pizzas would take almost two hours to arrive.

They stood there preparing the cake with a recipe that ______ had saved on her mobile phone, and then the others went downstairs in their swimming costumes with towels in their hands to go to the beach. They decided to make two to make the most of the ingredients, so they wouldn't have to return with them to Manhattan or leave them there, and also so that none (of the men) would go hungry. Luckily it didn't take long, and she and John were left to decorate one of the cakes while Yelena took Fanny for a walk. When they finished they put them in the fridge and then went upstairs to change clothes to go to the beach with the others during the golden hour. When the pizzas arrived they had a picnic dinner on the sand while they watched the sunset overlooking the ocean.

"Can we have cake?" asked Alexei as they packed up and headed into the house for the night.

"The cake is for tomorrow," answered Yelena as they started walking across the sand to the mansion.

"He's not going to blow out the candles" said ______ referring to the birthday boy, in the same position as Yelena, "with the cake in pieces."

"But there are two," reminded Bucky. The truth is, like Alexei, he too wanted to try the cake for once.

"What if I'm in the mood now, too?" asked Bob, trying his luck as he joked, "Can't I even do it?"

"You said you didn't want to," she said playing along in the same tone.

"I said you needn't bother to do it."

"Ohhhh," she exclaimed smiling sideways. "Well... If you want to," she added resignedly. "Only if Bob gives you permission," she said to the others, "they're his cakes."

And then they all looked at Bob, and he gave his approval. They ate the cake they didn't decorate and watched a film of Bob's choice, and then Yelena walked Fanny one last time and they went to bed, because it was still a working day and they had got up early that morning.

The next morning they woke up early as usual, even if they didn't have their alarms set. Their bodies were used to waking up at a certain time, but this way they could take the opportunity to go to the beach early and get a good spot on the shore. Everyone congratulated and hugged Bob on seeing him, Yelena took Fanny for a walk, and Alexei and Bucky went to buy alcohol and more snacks.

It was still early and the day was going to get better in ways he could only imagine in his wettest daydreams, but for the moment the best gift Bob got was the sight of _______ in her bikini. And then, as they settled into their chosen spot on the sand, she took off her bikini top to apply sunscreen to her breasts, as she intended to sunbathe but didn't want to get the bikini mark on her skin or get sunburnt. Part of him didn't want to look, or at least he didn't want to be noticed looking (particularly by her), but he couldn't stop even if he tried — if he didn't look at her bare breasts then his eyes went to her inner thighs. For better or worse John nudged him as he applied sunscreen as well, getting his attention — for a moment he thought he had been inadvertently hit as he rubbed the cream into his skin, but seeing his facial expression he realised it was a predetermined act. With the look he gave him, along with a little smirk, he didn't need telepathy to know what he was thinking. "Look carefully, man." Bucky caught his eye too, he looked the same as John, but he offered him a pair of sunglasses. He knew he wasn't just offering them so the sun wouldn't bother him.

"Thank you," he whispered, embarrassed and blushing as he took them and put them on.

"Aren't you guys going to put sunscreen on?" Ava asked as she put some on as well, looking at Alexei and Bob.

"I want to get a tan," Alexei replied as Ava asked John to help her put it on her back.

"What you're going to do is get burned," Yelena said as she approached him with her jar of cream in hand. "You can also get tanned by putting cream on your back. That's what we do."

While Yelena helped her father cream his back and John did the same with Ava, and correctly assuming that it was only a matter of seconds before ______ asked someone to help her cream her back, Bucky went to the shore with the excuse of testing the water temperature so that the only option at that moment was Bob. He also assumed correctly that even if they didn't know he had done it on purpose they would be grateful with him.

"Can you help me, please?" she said looking at Bob, offering him the cream.

"Uh- Yeah, sure," he replied approaching her, taking the jar in his hand as she turned her back to him.

He poured a good dollop of cream into the palm of his dominant hand, and for a moment he didn't know what to do, or rather where to touch first. If it were up to him he would pull her closer to him, hug her from behind and put his hands on her breasts while spreading her thighs with his leg, but he had to settle for rubbing the cream gently over her back. Good thing he was wearing his sunglasses, and especially good thing she he was on her back, because he couldn't stop staring at how well his hand was gliding down her bare back, from her shoulders to dangerously close to where the only article of clothing she wore was.

"What about you?" asked ______, wondering why he didn't intend to cream himself. "What's your excuse?"

"I have the feeling that the sun can't burn me anymore," he answered.

"But what if it does?" Ava asked.

"The burns are very uncomfortable and painful," said John, "being from Florida you should know better."

"And I'm sure Valentina won't discharge you two for it," said Yelena, including her father.

"You don't lose anything by putting cream on you," said John, "let ______ help you putting it on your back."

Now it was time for them both to be grateful to them, and it was also time for her to rub cream on his back, so when he said he had finished (unfortunately for him, for if it had been up to him he would have been touching her for longer) he handed her back the cream and they changed positions. Even if it was only on his back he loved the feel of her hands on him, and she loved sliding them over his muscles even more.

"It's cold," Bucky warned as he climbed out of the water when he saw Bob approaching the shore.

"Just what I need," he replied as he mindlessly waded into the ocean.

"Yeah," said Bucky, laughing, "it's too hot."

"Thank you again," he said as he turned to watch him walk away to where the others were, and he held up the fist and thumb of his flesh hand.

They spent most of the day there, drinking beers and eating snacks and pizzas from the day before, which they heated up in a moment in the house's oven and microwave. It was in the middle of the afternoon that they went back inside, to wash up and get ready for dinner at a nearby burger restaurant, since that was Bob's favourite food (and if they ordered it out, it was impossible for it to arrive hot and for them to reheat it themselves).

They would have dessert at home, which was the cake that was decorated with a heart and his name, and on it two candles in the shape of the numbers of the years he was celebrating, stuck like the arrow shot by Cupid that he had in his.

Being sung Happy Birthday made him a little nervous, but to him and everyone else because what are you supposed to do during it? Besides all the attention, but at least it was genuine attention from people who did love and care about him, and he was very grateful to have them in his life. He loved them all dearly, but he had a favourite.

"Don't forget to make a wish!" she reminded him, grinning from ear to ear as she recorded it on her mobile phone. He looked at her smiling, then blew out the candles as everyone cheered and clapped.

When everyone went to get their presents he was surprised to see her appear with a pile of presents in her arms, she could hardly fit them and was careful not to drop any of them on the floor.

"Why did you buy me so many?" he asked as he watched her leave them on the table where he was sitting, also confused.

"Oh and wait," said Alexei, "there's more on the first floor."

"I don't know," she laughed nervously and blushed slightly as she unstacked the pile on the table, "I felt there weren't enough of them and I didn't really know what to get you, so I felt that the more I got you the more chances you'd like one of them. Hold on a second," she said holding up the index finger of her dominant hand, "I'll be right back," she said as she turned to head for the stairs to get the remaining ones.

"We're going to be here for half an hour," Ava said half jokingly and half seriously after Bob had opened everyone else's presents first, when it was time to open ______'s presents. Already the table and floor was littered with torn wrapping paper.

"Sorry," she said embarrassed, "you don't need to be here if you don't want to be, so take your drinks out to the swimming pool."

They may not have realised that the other was reciprocating their feelings, but everyone else knew it — it was obvious to the outside eye and they knew that they would rather be alone if possible, even if it was for something like opening presents. Still they all looked confusedly at each other and at Bob, seeking his approval.

"Yeah, no problem guys," he replied.

"Okay," Yelena replied.

And he opened each gift with her sitting next to him, telling her in detail why she had bought him that particular gift, why she thought he would like it or find it useful. He listened delightedly, marvelling at how well she knew him and enjoying her attention and affection.

"It's amazing- You're amazing, I don't know how I can ever repay you for all this."

"Oh don't worry," she said shyly, ducking her eyes to take a quick glance at the two small gifts on her thighs.

Among all the gifts, torn paper and the tablecloth had been easy to hide. She wanted those gifts to be the last ones because they were the most personal. It was a letter and some friendship bracelets that she had made herself, and surprisingly she was more embarrassed to give him the bracelet than the letter, because even though she had written him a cheesy letter it wasn't a romantic declaration of love (although she thought about it, but she didn't feel quite sure and didn't want to steal his protagonism on his birthday).

"Okay, the one I'm going to give you now is the penultimate one... It's stupid, you don't have to wear it if you don't want to for some reason, it's silly, but..." she shrugged, and he obviously realised how nervous she was and wanted to calm her down.

"Don't worry, I'm sure I'll love it," she smiled apologetically as well as warmly, and then took his bracelet and raised both fists, making him have to choose. He touched her left fist with the index finger of his right hand and opened it, revealing an empty palm. Then she hid her hands again and did the same a couple more times, not opening her hand even if he got it right. "Oh come on," he laughed.

"Okay, okay," she laughed. "Here you go," she said opening her fist where she had his bracelet, also taking hers on her thighs with her free hand at the same time. "They're friendship bracelets," she said as he took the one she offered him and as she showed him hers.

"Ohhh! It's so cool!" he said as he looked at his, and he wasn't lying or exaggerating. "Let's see yours?" and she held it up to him so he could get a better look. They were both beaded bracelets of various shapes and colours, but Bob's had his name in beads of various shades of yellow and blue and hers had her name in other colours. "What if... I wear yours and you wear mine? I think that makes more sense," he said shyly as he shrugged his shoulders, "so we'll always be there for each other."

"Oh," she said without thinking as the proposition took her by surprise, but she loved the fact that he wanted to wear a bracelet with her name on it and she wanted to wear one with his on it, "yeah, of course," she replied enthusiastically, and they exchanged bracelets and put them on. Bob's was a little big on her, and his was a little small on her, but it was bearable.

"I've never had anything like this done to me before," he confessed with a touch of tenderness as he looked at the bracelet on his wrist.

"I'm glad I'm the first," she said with a smile on her face as she looked at him.

"Really, thank you so much," he thanked her now as he looked at her in the same way he looked at the bracelet on hia wrist, "for everything- Wait- You said it was the second to last one."

"Yeah... It's another cheesy one," she said as she took the envelope on her thighs and handed it to him. "But I don't want you to open this now," she said as he took it.

"Oh come on," he said slightly annoyed again and disappointed as he was looking forward to seeing what it was.

"It's embarrassing," she replied.

"Well... Okay."

"Come on," she said as she stood up and picked up the wrapping paper lying around to roll it into a ball and throw it in the bin, "let's go to the swimming pool with these."

"Well, all right," he said resignedly, and helped her pack up. They took his gifts up to his bedroom, put on their swimming costumes and went downstairs with the others. "Look what ______ made me," he said showing off the bracelet as they approached the others, sitting on sofas and armchairs in the courtyard.

"Ohhh," exclaimed Yelena, "it's very cute."

"In theory he was supposed to wear one with his name on it," she said showing the one she was wearing, "but he thought of swapping them," which surprised no one.

"Probably my favourite- of her presents," the birthday boy quickly clarified, not wanting to make them feel bad, "I still have one left to open."

The swimming pool was bright thanks to the lights and warm from all the sunlight that had hit it throughout the day, but even so, since it wasn't so hot anymore because it was night time, the swim wasn't so pleasant, so between that and the fact that they felt like drinking again, they didn't last long in there. When they had dried off with their towels they sat down again on the sofas and armchairs, this time all of them, and started drinking and chatting. But there comes a point when you run out of topics of conversation, especially considering that they literally do everything together as co-workers and housemates, so they started to play drinking games, asking each other personal questions. At this point it was John's turn to ask Bob.

"Mmm... I don't know," he said as he tried to think of a question. "I don't know," he said with a shrug, "body count?" he said not particularly interested in the answer, it was obviously the first thing that popped into his mind and he settled for it.

"Um... I don't keep count..." he answered shyly, and completely gained everyone's attention, but especially ______'s, who jealously clutched the cup she was holding in her hand tighter without realising it.

"Really?" asked Bucky in surprise.

"Are you a fuckboy?" asked Alexei as ______ raised the cup in her hand to her lips. "And when?" he asked in surprise as they used to keep Bob under control in every way and he didn't get out of the tower much. They didn't generally visualise him being obsessed with girls.

"Wait, fuckboy?" asked the birthday boy in confusion. "I thought you meant assassinations on missions," he said looking at his blond male friend.

"What? No!" said John, "I meant how many people you've fucked."

"Oh, well... None, or at least that I remember," he replied, surprisingly calmer than when he said he didn't keep track (of the murders), but still a bit shy about telling something so sexually intimate (in front of the girl he was in love with), and then, hearing that answer, ______ couldn't help but cough and spit some drink out of her mouth, stealing the attention from Bob and deciding to spit the drink into the soil of a flowerpot she was standing next to.

"I'm sorry," she said, looking totally embarrassed, "it went the other way," and she wasn't partly lying.

They spent some more time there but went to bed early, or at least to lock themselves in their bedrooms. Bob was anxious to open the envelope ______ had given him, and he opened it sitting on his bed by the light of one of the little lamps on the bedside tables beside. When he saw that it was a letter (quite long) he lay down to read it quietly.

By the middle of the letter his eyes were watering, and by the end tears were running down his sides and into his ears, and he wept with joy as he read how much she appreciated him. He read it three times, and even if it wasn't a romantic love letter (although it was rather ambiguous), it was in fact a love letter through and through. He couldn't believe his luck, that day and in general. He had (almost) everything he wanted, and he couldn't wait to express his gratitude, so he put the letter aside and reached for his mobile phone under his pillow.

Bob: You're probably asleep and you'll see this tomorrow

Bob: But I just read your letter

Bob: And I want to thank you

Bob: Right now

Bob: I'm speechless

Bob: If I loved you less maybe I could talk about it more

Bob: I mean

Bob: I'm not implying that you love me less for all that you've written me

Bob: On the contrary!

Bob: Look, I don't know

Bob: You know me

Bob: And I'm really glad you're in my life too

Bob: I wish I could hug you right now

Bob: I love you too

Bob: I love you very much

Bob: Although I feel that those three words alone are not enough to express how much I love you

Bob: Maybe I should write you a letter too

And then he thought that maybe he was already saying too much — he was too emotional and like everyone else he let his guard down emotionally at night (but he couldn't blame it on the alcohol he had drunk earlier, because thanks to the serum it didn't affect him anymore). He wanted to delete the last two messages, but unfortunately it was not possible in that app. And to make matters worse, he saw the "Seen". Instantly he dropped the phone as if it was burning in his hands, leaving it on the mattress and putting his hands to his mouth as he did when he saw John fall down the lift shaft the day he met them. When he saw "Typing..." he quickly removed his hands from his mouth to exit their chat room at the same speed, seeing the messages in the notification bar.

______: I'm glad you liked it

______: 🥹🥹🥹🥹

______: I want my hug 😤

______: Right now!!!!

______: I'm going to your room

______: Give me 30 seconds

He wasn't expecting that, but he wouldn't complain either because it was just what he wanted: to see her, to hug her, to feel her. He quickly wiped his tears and got out of bed and headed for the door, trying to calm down and act as if nothing had happened, and just as she had indicated in the message, in thirty seconds she was there, tapping twice on the door. He opened it and there she was, wearing only a huge shirt (with clearly nothing underneath holding her breasts in place) and a huge smile that infected him. Then she took a few steps forward into the room and closer to him, standing on her tiptoes as he curled up to embrace her once and for all.

"I love you so much," he whispered in her ear, trying not to sound too romantic or desperate, though it didn't really help the way he was holding her: wrapping his arms around her as if his life was at stake, gently yet tightly.

"I love you too," she said tenderly, hugging his bare chest in the same way. He was only wearing a swimming costume because it was clearly hot, but instead of the balcony being open, it was all closed up and the ceiling fan was on full blast.

"Did I wake you up?" he asked worriedly when they parted.

"No, I had my mobile on silent mode and it's impossible for me to fall asleep so quickly, besides I'm not sleepy yet."

"Me too, actually."

And the same idea came up in both of their minds, only she was quicker to formulate it.

"Can I stay here for a while?"

"Sure," he replied as he stepped aside to let her pass, and as she went into the room he closed the door.

"Did you have a good time today?" she asked as she climbed into bed, taking the liberty of lying on her side.

He couldn't help noticing how the pose emphasised her curves and the folds of her shirt.

"Isn't it obvious?" he asked as she did the same in the same position.

"I want to hear it coming out of your mouth," she answered with a smile, and as usual she spread it to him.

"I had a great time today, thank you very much."

"Cool. Thanks to you."

"Thanks to me for what?" he asked with a laugh.

"For existing, I don't know," she replied shyly as she laughed and shrugged her shoulders.

He knew that at that particular moment she wasn't thanking him for not killing himself in the past, but he knew that in general she was, and that made him happy. Looking at her with tenderness and with his eyes starting to water again another idea popped into his mind, and he dared to formulate it.

"Can you hug me again?"

"Sure," she replied, "come here," she said as she stood up a little to make herself comfortable. Seeing that he didn't really know how to stand she decided to help him with directions. "Put your head on my arm," she said, referring to the arm she (and seconds later he) was using as a pillow. He did as she instructed, bending his right arm and resting his hand on her arm, and shyly placing his left hand on her waist. "Come closer," she said as she did as she had just indicated him, pulling her neck closer to his face and entwining their legs a little.

"Aren't you hot?" he asked, mingling concern with confusion, unintentionally tickling her neck with his voice. That question caused one of her eyebrows and the corners of her lips to rise.

"What do you mean?" she asked now with a small smirk on her lips.

"Because I'm too hot."

"Don't worry," she said as she began to run her fingers through the strands of his hair with the hand on the arm she was using as their pillow, causing the birthday boy to relax, closing his eyes and feeling even happier and calmer.

It wasn't awkward or uncomfortable, few things were between them. They were great friends and she was generally a loving person in every way, she hugged him often and they had no problem telling each other that they loved each other despite being in love with each other, but this was the first time they had cuddled like this, late at night and almost naked.

"Bob," she said after a few minutes in comfortable silence.

"Mm?"

"I have... one last present for you," he broke away from her, so that she could see his confused expression and look at her as she spoke. "You can refuse if you don't want to."

"What is it?" he asked, getting more and more confused.

"Sex," she replied. The idea had been on her mind for a little while, but she hadn't had enough alcohol to show complete bravery or make the idea seem crazy the next morning, so her nerves got the better of her as she was brought back to her senses by her friend's surprised facial expression. "I mean- For a moment I thought it would be a good idea because I assumed you'd want to lose it for good and that you'd feel more comfortable doing it with a friend, but seriously," she said nervously, "if you don't want to, it's fine and I understand, no hard feelings."

"Are you sure?" he asked surprised and confused. He was happy too, but it seemed like he was living a dream, and if he really was, he'd rather not wake up.

"Yeah."

"But do you really want to fuck me?"

"Uh- Yeah Bob," she answered, blushing and holding back a nervous laugh.

"Why?"

"Because you're really hot, honestly," or not quite, because she still didn't dare to confess that it was also because she was in love with him, and this wouldn't be a good time to do it if she dared. At that moment she could make the excuse that she just wanted to help a friend having sex with him without having to risk her feelings not being reciprocated, which was partly true, but not entirely. "And because I want to help you and make you happy."

"You don't mind that I'm inexperienced?"

"Of course not," she said confidently, placing the palm of her right hand on his cheek. "In fact," she said, smiling and blushing, "I'm glad to have the chance to be the first," she said stroking his cheek with her thumb. "It means you won't forget me."

"I'm going to need your help...." He said, and instantly felt her rub her knee against his cock, which began to harden as he cuddled with her. "A-And.... I don't know if I can last long..." He said nervously and ridiculously excited, it was already showing in his voice and breathing.

"It's okay honey," she said smiling warmly as she brushed his hair out of his face, "don't worry."

You could say that kissing was like signing the agreement, getting down to business. It was she who moved closer to him, leaning in and breaking what little space there was between them. She didn't know if she was his first kiss too, but she liked to think she was, it made her feel even more special. She took pity on him kissing him slowly, and he played along until they started to get hotter and hotter. Although he moaned as much or maybe even more than she did to her surprise he wasn't a bad kisser, maybe it was beginner's luck.

"Do you want to do it with the light off or on?" She asked with bated breath as they broke apart for lack of air.

"On, I want to see you," he dared to answer in the same state, which brought a smile to her face.

Then she told him to sit on the edge of the bed, getting up to take off her panties and then her shirt in front of him, who watched her in astonishment.

"Aren't you going to undress?" she said pointing to his swimming costume with a clear erection as she approached him, raising an eyebrow and smiling playfully.

"Oh, right," he said nervously as he stood up and pulled down his swimming costume, dropping it to the floor and releasing his erection. Now the only thing they had on were their bracelets, and obviously he felt her eyes on his crotch, her eyes went there as his eyes went to hers and her breasts again.

"Good size."

"Really?"

"Yeah, it's perfect," she said to flatter and soothe him (but she wasn't lying) as she moved closer to him, standing on tiptoe and putting her hand back on his cheek and the other on his shoulder, motioning for him to lean in for another kiss, this time more sweetly than passionately. "And all for me," she said before kissing him.

Then she motioned for him to sit on the edge of the bed with his legs spread, and he complied, resting his hands behind him. He assumed she would sit on top of his cock, but he shuddered all the same as he felt her sit on his right thigh as they settled in, feeling her wet lips on his skin and her thigh rubbing against his cock in the same way her hard nipples rubbed against his muscular torso. And then, as if that wasn't enough, she began to rub herself against him as she gave him a hickey on his neck and brought her hand to his cock. He tensed unconsciously as he felt her hand wrap around it, and she slowly but firmly stroked up and down and then down and up.

"Oh God-," he moaned without thinking, his breath hitching and his voice trembling. After a pause to try to get used to the sensation he asked, "W-What do I do?"

"Nothing right now, just relax, okay? Let me know if you feel like you're going to cum," she said as she moved to his lips to kiss him again, this time more passionately than before.

He whimpered as his voice choked in a sloppy, hungry kiss. His desperation was palpable, his cock was hot and throbbing. He whimpered at the slightest caress on it and on his thigh, adding some nonsense when their lips were parted, apart from watching hypnotised how her hand move.

Her left hand clung to his right shoulder and wrapped around his back like a normal hug, and he also wrapped his right arm around her waist. Her breath hitched as he did as she slid more and more easily up his thigh as she became wetter and wetter. Also, as she kissed him, she increased the speed of her hand even more as their arousal grew, until he groaned and told her he was close.

"That was... incredible," he said, his breath coming in ragged gasps, resting his forehead against hers.

"Well, it's only just begun," she replied, laughing softly as she stroked his chin with her fingers. "Tell me something you've always wanted to do, some kink you have, I'll fulfill it."

"Uh- I don't know..." He said hesitantly as he pulled away from her, resting his hands shyly on her waist.

"Oh come on, everyone has kinks, and it probably doesn't scare me," she said in an attempt to calm him down. "I don't judge either."

"I'm a little ashamed to say it..." he said shyly.

"I'm not afraid to do a footjo-"

"What!?" he asked confused and surprised, but laughing at the same time. "No, it's not that! Why do you think it's that!?"

"Fuck, isn't it?" she asked surprised but also holding back her laughter as she put her hand to her mouth to cover it.

"No, why do you think that?" he asked again, now desperate to know the answer as he laughed.

"It's like- the most common weird fetish among men," she replied as she shrugged, still with her hand in front of her mouth trying to hide her laughter. "But don't change the subject and tell me, come ooon," she said putting her hands on his shoulders and trying to shake him.

"Okay," he said trying to sound more serious, "but please don't laugh."

"Okay," she replied, and when she was silent she made direct eye contact with him, but her lips were trembling as she tried to hold in her laughter. It felt like when at school the teacher said that the next person who laughed would be punished, you tried to be serious but you'd look at your friend holding in your laughter and it was all fucked up, but this time Bob was both the teacher and friend. "If I laugh it's not because of that!" She hastened to add in her defence as she laughed, her laughter rubbing off on him as he dropped his back onto the mattress. At least thanks to that moment he was already calmer, both emotionally and sexually.

He stretched out an arm to grab a pillow and put it over part of his face. She could see him giggling, but as the smile faded, she, still sitting on his thigh, knew he was getting ready to confess what he wanted to do to her, or rather, what he wanted her to do to him.

"I want you to sit on my face and ride it."

"Oh," she exclaimed, trying to hide her astonishment as she hadn't expected that, but she didn't dislike the idea either, "interesting. Is that why you put the pillow over your face?" She dared to joke, "To get used?"

"Have mercy on me, please," he said as he laughed, half joking and half serious.

"I will," she said more seriously now as she settled herself, sitting on his waist and leaning forward to pull the pillow away from his face, "no problem," she said resting her hands on his shoulders, nodding and with an encouraging smile that she wanted him to see. "And it's nothing to be ashamed of or weird, a lot of men like that too," she said quietly.

"I'm beginning to worry that you know so much about men's kinks," he said again half joking and half serious.

"I had some curious experiences, yeah... But who hasn't?" she asked without thinking.

He. He didn't have any, and when she realised what she had said, which fortunately was quick, she put her hand quickly to her mouth again.

"Fuck- Sorry," she said embarrassed.

"It's all right," he said laughing resignedly as he rubbed his forehead with his fingers.

"So... Are you sure you want to?"

"Yeah, I'm sure."

"You're going to find it hard to breathe..." she warned.

"It's not like you can kill me."

"That's fair," she said smiling sideways, "all right then," she said leaning down to give him a short but sweet kiss on the lips. "But warn me if you need to stop, okay?" she said as she pulled away from him to change positions, and he nodded.

She was honestly embarrassed to find herself putting her knees to the side of his head and settling down to bring her pussy closer to his face, it was the first time she had ever done such a thing, but she was glad to experience what she was experiencing and to be able to say that in a way he had been her first time too.

But she didn't want to sit down dropping her weight — she was afraid of hurting him with her weight, though she knew that (as well as choking him) was impossible. She made eye contact with his pleading eyes, eyes that were so kind to her that they soothed her, and at the same time also excited her. And all he could see was her, but mostly he only had eyes for her.

He swallowed, taking a deep breath as she slowly sat on his face, slowly adding more and more weight until she was completely on top of him. He began to fuck her with his tongue, straining to move his tongue quickly and do his best. The instant she felt that along with the tip of his nose against her already sensitive clit she moaned and clutched at his scalp, partly for stability as she began to rub herself against him.

The moans of one excited the other, although his could barely be heard as he was crushing the lower half of her face with her pussy. Nothing but the moans of both and the sounds of his tongue licking inside him filled the bedroom (along with the ceiling fan, the only witness in there to what they were doing and which was doing nothing to quench the heat they were feeling). That made her move harder and faster against him, and the more she rubbed his nose against her clit. She felt a little guilty because she knew he couldn't breathe, but she also knew she had nothing to worry about thanks to his powers. And she was close, feeling hotter and hotter inside her, and she desperately rolled her hips on him, showing him no mercy in that regard.

With her head thrown back, her lips parted as she moaned, she arched her back and clenched her toes as the heat building in her belly surged down her body, and she unconsciously tried to pull away from him through the spasms of pleasure she felt in her clitoris. Bob held her thighs tightly in his hands, large palms that shyly and slowly slid to her buttocks, squeezing them needily when they reached them.

When she pulled away from him he felt her orgasm slide down her entrance and drip into his mouth, and then she lay defeated beside him as he wiped his face with his right arm.

"So did I do well?" He asked anxiously for the answer, turning his neck to watch her catch her breath at the same time he did, but with his eyes closed. "Are you all right?"

"Yeah yeah," she moaned, still with her eyes closed, not noticing that his eyes were fixed on her breasts. "And you? Are you all right?" She asked as she opened them and craned her neck, moving her arm towards him for physical contact.

"Oh yeah," he replied with bated breath, nodding his head. "Better than ever, thank you," he said laughing nervously and blushing.

"You're welcome," she replied also laughing. She had to laugh, the situation was surreal but she was loving it.

"Um- Can I touch your tits...?" he asked shyly, trying to look her in the eyes and trying to avoid looking at them, but failing in the attempt.

"Touch anywhere you want honey, I'm all yours," she said smirking. "Come here," she indicated with her index finger, and he obeyed putting his knees at her sides and sitting on her, careful not to drop his full weight so as not to hurt her. Trembling he brought his hands to them, at last touching what he had wanted to touch all day and for months.

"Oh God," he said in awe, his breath hitching as he squeezed them, "they're so soft... And so beautiful..." he said mesmerised as he leaned down to get much closer to them, and as an idea popped into his mind he looked up, "Can I suck them...?"

She didn't even answer, she just grabbed him by the back of the head with her dominant hand and put his face in them. He rubbed his face against them and in the cleavage, and then, while squeezing one he did everything with the nipple of the other: kissing, biting and pulling, licking and sucking... — not necessarily in that order, he just did what he felt without thinking, moving from one action to another when he got tired of one, and the same from one tit to the other. Now that he had the chance to touch her exactly where he wanted to he wasn't going to waste it.

"Bob..." she moaned as she lifted his chin, wanting to get his attention and make him look at her. Their hungry gazes connected, even though his hair was falling messily down his face and saliva was running down his chin. "Kiss me," and as usual he obeyed, and their lips met again, as did their saliva and tongues. "What else do you want me to do?" She asked when they broke apart for lack of air.

"Fuck me, ride me," he begged, "please," he said as he pulled back from her and lay down on the bed.

He watched nervously but anxiously as she settled down on top of him and took hold of his cock to finally push it slowly inside her. Bob really wanted to see his cock disappear inside her, he had daydreamed about it many times, but the instant he felt its tip enter her wet entrance he had to throw his head back, whimpering and clutching at the mattress as if his life depended on it, clutching even tighter and panting with every inch he entered her.

"Are you okay my love?" She asked as she sat fully on top of him, not because of the weight but because of his condition. Bob's was a little big on her, and she was a little small on her, but it was bearable. She knew he could handle it, but she wanted to make sure.

"Yeah-" he moaned, loosening his grip on the mattress.

"Yeah," she said smirking, "you look very good..." she said as she scanned his muscular abdomen, the same one she'd longed to touch in the morning as she placed her hands on his lower half.

"Oh fuck-!" he moaned as he felt her start to move, and even if it was slow he gripped the mattress tightly again as she held the index finger of her dominant hand in front of her lips where she had a playful smile, meaning that it was better if the others didn't hear them. "Fuck- Sorry- But you feel- God-"

"Don't be sorry," she said still smiling in the same way, "I love to hear you like this," she said as she grabbed his hands and put them on her waist. "Touch me like you're creaming me again," and he obeyed trying to do his best while trying to stay sane and silent, watching in front of him her tits with his saliva traces and his hands sliding up and down and up and down, from her tits to her buttocks.

"Fuck- You feel so good-" he moaned, trying to keep it to a whisper. "Both inside and out... I-I don't think I'm going to last long..."

"Not yet honey, come on," she moaned, "you can do it, I know you can. Do it for me, okay?" she pouted as she wiggled. "Be a good boy and cum when I tell you to."

"P-Please..." he whimpered, tightening his grip on her buttocks. It was definitely going to leave marks, but she wouldn't complain and would wear every bruise and scratch like badges of honour.

"Wait, I assure you, it's better to cum at the same time."

Surprisingly he obeyed again. She thought that by picking up the pace he would cum instantly, but he endured it well, and clearly let him know it by saying that he was taking her very good. Luckily for him she didn't have long to go before she was at the same point as he was — it seemed like his cock was made for her, and to be honest, it was making her too hot to see how he was on the verge of tears as he felt so much pleasure thanks to her.

Hearing her moan his name between compliments as they made eye contact while bouncing on top of him was the last straw, literally. He closed his eyes and bit his lip, thinking it would stop the sobbing, the moaning, and above all the orgasm coming out of him, but it was no use. He didn't have time to warn her, but neither did she. The sensation of her wet walls pulsing around him, just as his cock throbbed inside her as he filled her was too much. Unconsciously, as he felt both his body and hers go into spasms he gripped her waist tightly again as when she was on top of his face.

There was no turning back now, she could proclaim his virginity and what was the best orgasm of his life. Although he knew it would feel better than using his hand he didn't imagine it would feel that good. He was thankful he was lying down, because he ended up exhausted (although he guessed correctly that he would soon recover all his energy, also thanks to the serum). And he wasn't the only one, but she still slowly rocked her hips back and forth, wanting to enjoy him until the last few seconds before she was separated from him.

"God," he sighed, "that was... wonderful," he said as he let go of her hips and she stood up, pulling away from him, "thank you so much. Uh- Did you have fun?" he said as he craned his neck to watch her, watching as she sat in the gap between his legs and let out his semen mingled with other fluids.

"Bob, I've cum twice," she said pointing to her entrance, and as he heard her answer and saw all that came out of her he blushed, but most of all he felt happy and proud of himself, "what do you think?" she asked smirking, a smile that infected him.

"I wanted to make sure," he answered as she approached him awkwardly, her knees giving out from riding him so much one way or the other.

"But you didn't cum when I told you to," she said as she dropped down beside him, laying on her side as she was at first.

"Did you? I think you were more busy cumming on my cock," he said as he got into the same position as her, and the instant she heard that she gasped and had to hold a laugh at the same time.

"How dare you...!?" she asked totally surprised. "I'll have to punish you for double," she said playing along.

"Whenever you want," he said, and they both leaned in for a kiss, short but sweet as their smiles relaxed. "Can I ask you a question?"

"You already are."

He would take that as a "Yes".

"Um... Your letter is very romantic, and always but especially this weekend you've been very... attentive and affectionate with me," seeing where he was going the young woman's face became more serious, "and I was wondering if... you're in love with me, because sometimes I get that feeling but sometimes I also think I'm delusional..."

"What makes you doubt that? Apart from the obvious," she said referring to his low self-esteem due to his depression and traumas.

"I remember a few months ago I said I liked short skirts and soon you started wearing a lot of them, but it could also be because it was getting hot," he said smiling nervously but hopefully, and now he was the one who spread the smile to her.

"It was because of you," she laughed defeatedly, nodding slightly with her eyes closed. She could no longer escape or deny it, but after what they had done she felt hopeful and it wasn't a bad time to confess it once and for all. "It's all because of you, Bob," she said as she opened them, looking up at him with a tender gaze.

"You make me the happiest man in the world," he said grinning from ear to ear as he rose to get on top of her, kissing her face full of kisses as she giggled with a blush. "I love you."

"I love you too," she said as she laughed and placed her hands on his cheeks before kissing him again.

"I can't believe the candles' wish came true so fast," she said as she put her hands on his shoulders.

"Was it me?" she asked surprised but happy.

"Yeah, you — to have you all to myself once for all."

post credit scene:

"Hey, now that I think about it, what kinks do you have?" Bob asked when the room was quiet and dark after taking a cold shower, trying to sleep once and for all.

"Good night my love," she replied with a laugh.

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mysticalcrowntyrant · 17 hours ago

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hiii i think ur reqs are open but if they’re not ignore me ^-^ i was wondering if you could write some kind of soldier/military yandere x reader, maybe some kind of prisoner reader? >o< i’ll leave the details and all the creative stuff up to u :)

Yandere Military x Reader

You're not sure how many days it’s been. Maybe weeks. The days blur together in this place—some underground bunker, reinforced with cold steel and cracked concrete. Your wrists are raw from the cuffs, though Akin doesn't always keep you restrained anymore.

Not since you stopped trying to run.

You hear the heavy, limping footsteps before he even opens the door. You could recognize that uneven rhythm in your sleep now—the metallic thud-thump of his bad leg dragging behind the rest of him. The click of a keypad, the hiss of hydraulics, and then��

“Angel?” His voice is a low rasp, worn down like sandpaper, thick with an accent you can’t quite place. You don’t answer. You’ve learned that silence draws less attention than defiance.

He ducks into the room, too big for the narrow frame. Broad shoulders barely squeeze through. The light catches the scars carved into his skull, down his neck, through his arms like a road map of violence. His uniform is stripped of insignia, stained and fraying.

He sets a tray down and kneels in front of you, close enough that you smell the burn of smoke on his skin. His bad leg groans as he lowers himself. You instinctively shrink back, but his gloved hand finds your face before you can fully move away.

“You look tired,” he murmurs. His thumb brushes beneath your eye like he has the right. “Nightmares again?”

As if you’re the one dreaming of atrocities.

You bite your tongue.

His fingers linger, gentle despite their size. Rough hands used to break bones now treating you like something delicate. Precious. His. There’s something terrifying in how careful he is with you, like he thinks you’ll shatter if he doesn’t hold you right. Or worse, like he wants to break you slowly, so you'll never want to leave.

“I never wanted this for you,” he says. “But you came into my hands. And now I can’t let go. Not when everything else has fallen apart.”

He leans in closer. The scars on his face twist when he smiles, and the light in his eyes is too warm for what he is.

“There’s no going back,” he whispers. “They don’t want you. They left you behind. But I took you in. I’m the one who keeps you safe.”

Safe. In a cell. Behind three sets of locked doors. With a man who can crush a throat with one hand and still look at you like you’re the moon.

His breath brushes your cheek.

"Angel..."

You want to scream. But instead, you stay still—his hand still cupping your face like he’s holding something sacred.

Akin kisses your forehead, his lips rough and warm. When he finally pulls back, he’s breathing heavier, jaw tight, as though he’s the one barely holding on.

“I’ll make it better,” he says. “I’ll make it good. You’ll see.”

He limps out of the room without waiting for a reply.

The door seals shut.

And you’re left alone, with the scent of him still lingering, and the suffocating certainty that you’re the one thing he’ll never let go of.

No matter how hard you try.

Masterlist

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obvithe-bestsoph · 2 days ago

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heyyyyy could you write something about cuba? His sisters and reader pranking him (and maybe their parents as well) idk if you remember this trend where the sister is rude to the gf to see the brothers/ bfs reaction. (this description is horrendous😭)

there is a link to a tiktok https://vm.tiktok.com/ZNdhRUp55/

traitors!

masterlist requests word count: 1k

a/n: protective pau is so 😋😋 genre: fluff. summary: you team up with pau's older sister, irene, to prank him. warnings: none.

You’re not a prankster. Not usually, anyway. But when Irene pulls up a TikTok and says, “We have to try this on Pau,” her grin widens. That mischievous older-sister energy is too strong to ignore, and honestly? You’re a little curious too.

You’re going to do the ‘rude sister’ trend. The one where the sister acts super rude to her brother’s girlfriend just to see how the brother reacts. The whole thing sounds ridiculous, but Irene swears Pau will either go full big-brother protective or flop so hard it’s embarrassing. And either way, it’s going to be hilarious.

“You in?” she asks, holding out a pinky.

You hesitate for a split second. “I swear, if he gets mad at me-”

“He won’t. I’ll be evil. You’ll be sweet. We’ll tell him after like, ten seconds.” She grins. “Unless he fails. Then we let him spiral a bit.”

It’s official. You're about to bully your boyfriend, all in the name of fun. Love is strange.

That afternoon, the Cubarsí house is buzzing. Pau’s just gotten back from training, hair damp and curls messy, wearing an oversized hoodie and hugging a bowl of strawberries in his lap. His parents are setting the table for lunch in the next room, and he looks too relaxed for what’s coming.

You shoot Irene a look.

She nods.

You step into the living room with a casual, “Hey, Irene, do you mind if I borrow your charger later?”

Irene flips the switch flawlessly. “Maybe get your own?”

You blink, surprised even though you’re in on the plan. “I- I left mine at home.”

“Yeah, that sounds like a you problem.” She says it flatly, looking you up and down like you’re a mildly unpleasant bug on her wall. “Not everyone’s here to babysit.”

Pau’s head lifts slowly from the snack bowl.

You glance at him, pretending to shrink. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to bother…”

“You didn’t mean to, but here we are.” Irene leans back on the couch dramatically, flipping her hair like she’s in a daytime soap on TV. “Some of us were trying to enjoy peace.”

Pau blinks twice. His whole brain does a buffering circle. He looks at you, then at Irene, then back at you.

“…Wait. What?”

“I just asked for a charger,” you say softly.

“She has a million,” Irene cuts in. “She’s needy.”

Needy?

Pau straightens like someone just poured cold water down the back of his shirt. “Irene, what are you talking about?”

“I’m just saying,” she says, arms crossed. “She’s always here. Using my stuff. In our living room. It's weird.”

You try not to laugh. You bite the inside of your cheek so hard it might bruise. Pau looks absolutely horrified.

He stands up fast, almost knocking his bowl off the couch. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

Irene raises a brow. “I’m being honest. Maybe she’s not the one.”

Oh. Oh. He’s steaming now.

“Okay, that’s it.” He points a very dramatic finger at Irene. “Apologize.”

Irene shrugs. “For what?”

“For being rude, irrational, and totally unfair.” Pau takes a step toward you and puts an arm around your shoulders. “She’s my girlfriend. You don’t talk to her like that.”

You peek up at him. “It’s okay…”

“No it’s not,” he says, voice rising. “You’re the sweetest person alive, and you never take anything from anyone. You barely let me open doors for you.”

“That’s true,” you admit. “I’m aggressively independent.”

He softens a little, but then spins back to Irene. “Why are you acting like this? Did something happen?”

Irene opens her mouth.

“Wait,” Pau says, stepping back like he just cracked the code. “Did mamá say something?”

“What?” Irene frowns.

“About her staying too much? Or papá? You’re always trying to protect me from family drama.”

“No-” she starts.

“Because if they did, I’ll talk to them. Seriously. They love her. Everyone loves her. Irene, what are you doing?”

She starts laughing. Hard.

Pau narrows his eyes. “What’s so funny?”

You break too. The tension, the act, everything crumbles as you double over with giggles. Pau’s still trying to solve the mystery while the two of you absolutely lose it.

“It’s a prank,” Irene giggles. “It’s a TikTok trend. I was being fake rude to see how you’d react.”

You nod, barely able to breathe. “You passed with flying colors, by the way.”

His face. The betrayal.

“You guys are the worst,” he mutters, plopping back down on the couch and covering his face with a pillow. “I was about to write a whole speech.”

Irene high-fives you.

“I was gonna fight *Mum*,” he says dramatically from under the pillow. “Like, actually confront her. About the love of my life being ‘clingy.’ I was about to go full telenovela.”

You pull the pillow away so you can see his face. “Love of your life?”

He blinks. “Okay, don’t use it against me.”

You grin. “Too late.”

There’s footsteps from the dining room, and suddenly Señor. Cubarsí pops his head in. “¿Qué pasa? We heard yelling.”

Pau groans. “They were pranking me. It was fake.”

Irene calls sweetly, “You want in next time, papá?”

He tilts his head, thinks about it for a beat, then nods once. “Absolutely.”

Pau looks like his whole world is collapsing. “I’m surrounded by traitors.”

“You’re surrounded by hilarious women,” you tease, poking his cheek. “You did good, though. Protective and dramatic. Honestly? Ten out of ten boyfriend behavior.”

He glares. “I’ll get you both back.”

“Oh, I’m shaking.”

“You should be.”

You and Irene laugh, already tossing around ideas for the next prank. But for now, Pau’s hand finds yours, and despite the chaos, he squeezes it gently.

“You know I’d always take your side, right?”

“I know,” you say. “That’s why we picked you.”

And even though he pretends to sulk for the next half hour, the proud little smile he hides behind his snack bowl says it all.

He loves you. He’d fight his entire family for you. And he’s absolutely plotting revenge.

You're not scared. Well, maybe a little.

#pau cubarsi #pau cubarsi fic #obvithebestsoph!paucubarsi #pau cubarsi x reader #fc barcelona #fanfiction #football #football fic #culer #teenage romance #PC2

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captain-huggy-bear · 3 days ago

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McBain and pregnant wife putting together ikea nursery furniture? She has it down and it is just not working for him.

Tried my hand at Jack, let me know what we think...I did take the idea and change it slightly cause I feel like Jack is a 'don't lift a finger' type of guy when you're pregnant. @firechilde I'm not saying get used to it, but here's something, a crumb, a scrap lol

Requests are currently closed while I work through current ones <3 Writing Masterlist

"Fuck!" Jack's shout is loud, loud enough that you hear it from the bottom of the stairs. You're at the bottom staring up at them, wondering how badly you need to intervene based on how frustrated he sounds.

"Jack? Are you okay?"

"I'm fine! Stay down there!" He's surrounded by bits of wood, screws, random bolts and so many instructions in Swedish that he's pretty certain don't make sense even in the English version. It's fucking ridiculous, he should be able to put together furniture for the nursery without help. He's a husband, a soon to be dad, dads knew how to fix stuff and build stuff. Fuck, he should be able to do this.

You wait at the bottom of the stairs for another few moments, quiet while you listen to him swearing, almost screaming at the wood in front of him. It's...unusual for Jack. He's not a shouter or big yeller, usually pretty quiet despite his size, but it's easy to tell that the Ikea furniture is besting him and causing him to lose his marbles a little bit.

"Jack, are you sure?"

"I'm fine! I can do this!" He absolutely refuses to be bested by a stupid fucking piece of furniture. He can build a crib, it can't be that hard, people do it all the time. Except the stupid pieces aren't fitting together right and why does he have this extra piece of wood? "Fucking stupid, fucking Ikea fucking furniture....fucking need a rocket science degree or some shit to do this..."

"Are you sure?" You try one last time, calling up the stairs, hand resting on your belly. Baby is kicking like they can tell that Jack's having a meltdown on their behalf and it's funny...oh, God, it shouldn't be, you feel bad but also it's so funny. Jack who is so determined to do this by himself, who refused your help, is acting like he's at war with a crib right now.

"Baby, if you ask me if I'm okay one more time I'm going lose it." You don't tell him he's already lost it because you're not so sure your sense of humour would go over well right now.

"How about I go get takeout and call the guys?"

"Take out, yes, the guys? No. I don't need their help! I can do this." He's determined to do it on his own, certain he doesn't need a bunch of idiots making it even more chaotic in here.

"Sure thing, honey..." You appease him, already on your phone messaging Clayton, Michael, Dylan, Logan and for the adult supervision Alex. You grab your keys on the way out of the house knowing that by the time you get back there will either be a bigger mess or a built nursery.

Kerfoot is the first to message back, a picture of him and his tool box already at his car and you know without a doubt that even if the rest of the buffoons can't figure it out, he'll be able to and might stop Jack killing someone in the process.

To say Jack isn't impressed would be an understatement. There's a sense of betrayal when he opens the front door to the bumbling band of baboons he calls team mates, Kerf is leading the way, tool box in hand and he has no choice but to let them in.

By the time you get back with enough pizza to feed all of you, the nursery is actually built...mostly Kerf and Jack, Clayton tried his best but he's not exactly a DIY guy and Michael, Dylan and Logan were more of a nuisance than a help.

Still when you walk into the nursery all the furniture is put together and Jack's not swearing about wood and screws anymore.

"Pizza is downstairs, boys"

"Thanks, Mrs McBain!" Logan calls you as if you're 20 years his senior, it makes you wince, but you allow it as they all scramble out and after food. Jack remaining there, stood in the middle of the nursery with his arms crossed.

"You betrayed me."

"Baby..." You close the distance between you, belly bumping into his own as you reach up to cup his cheeks. His beard is scratchy on your palms but you don't pull away. God, you love that beard on him. "You needed help."

"I'm supposed to be able to do this...what sort of dad am I going to be if I can't even build some fucking Ikea furniture?" It's easy in that moment to see why it bothers him. Somewhere along the way Jack has decided that being a dad meant being amazing at DIY, at putting things together and the practical stuff...that he has to be perfect at it or he won't be a good father and it's so silly, so ridiculous because that's not what makes a dad a dad.

"You're going to be a great dad, you know why?" He leans into your palms a little further, his own hands come to rest on your belly, feeling the movement and kicks beneath his palms like baby is listening too.

"Because you care enough that you didn't want any help and wanted to build this all from scratch on your own even if it took you ten times longer. You're going to be amazing, okay? You've got time to practice the Ikea furniture skills."

"You sure?"

"Mm, I'll buy some book cases or something for you to mess up!" You joke, grinning at him cheekily until Jack swats lightly at your arse. Gentle because he's been so careful with you the entire pregnancy but still, playful, that foul mood from earlier lifting.

"Don't test me, baby."

"Never." Except you totally would test him just to get that look again. The one where Jack looks at you from underneath his lashes, smirk tilting up the corner of his mouth like he might just devour you even with his team mates just downstairs eating a boatload of pizza.

#huggy bear writes #Jack Mcbain x reader #jack mcbain/reader #nhl imagine #nhl x reader

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no-phrogs-in-hats · 11 hours ago

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Avenger!Agatha 2.0 x Fem!reader

Word count: 5,208

Content warning(s): MDNI; This is the most depressing oneshot I've ever written, heavy angst, reader gets blipped, majorly depressed Agatha, sedative use

Summary: Agatha Harkness has been through many harrowing events in her long life--her own execution, the loss of her child, and now, the blip that wipes out half of all living creatures.

A/N: Hi! I had a super vivid dream where I wrote this prompt and I just couldn't not write it. This is ofc set during Infinity War/Endgame so this is a different Avenger!Agatha (hence the 2.0). Our original Avenger!Agatha and Avenger!reader are still domestic and happy in NYC with the team and their baby. Also thank you to @sweetmidnights for giving me heartbreaking ideas to add to this oneshot.

Official song for this oneshot is In the Stars by Benson Boone

Spotify playlist I listened to

Masterlist

Part 2 (coming soon)

London, 2018

“Agatha, dinner’s going to burn!”

Your laughter in the kitchen can be heard from every room in the rental house as you’re hoisted up onto the counter. Agatha’s lips kiss endlessly over your face and neck.

“That’s alright,” she mutters. Her breathy words over your skin makes your hair stand up and she grins. “We’ll go out. We’re on vacation. You shouldn’t even be cooking.”

“Well excuse me–oh!” You gasp as her teeth bite and her hand slips under your shirt. You continue, words slower this time. “Excuse me for–wanting a home cooked meal instead of–fuck–pub food again.”

“Honey, you–”

“Ow!” As your head tips back and you go to brace yourself on the counter, your hand lands right on top of the hot stove. You jump out of your skin and jerk your hand back, sticking the burned portion into your mouth as Agatha laughs.

“Are you okay?” she snorts.

“No!” you cry. “I’m not okay! I just burned my fucking flesh on the stove!”

She kisses the pout off of your lips and takes your hand, covering it with both of hers. There’s a dim purple light and a feeling of warmth encapsulates your hand. When Agatha opens her hands, the irritated, red skin has returned to normal.

“There,” she says, and presses a small kiss to your palm. “All better.”

As painful as it is, reality beckons. You should know by now that with your job, a vacation will never truly be a vacation. A single phone call pops your blissful, domestic bubble.

When you see the contact, you groan. “Hello?”

“You still in London?” Steve’s voice on the other line is hard.

Still on the counter, one of your arms is wrapped around Agatha’s shoulders as she nuzzles into your neck. Her lips place scattered kisses on your neck, unrelenting as you try to focus on the phone call.

“Yeah,” you say, trying to steady your voice as Agatha’s teeth start nipping. “Why? Wh–Agatha, stop,” you hiss–which she ignores. “What’s wrong?”

“We’re at the Compound. Wanda and Vision were attacked in Scotland,” he says.

Your stomach drops. “Wait, what? What do you mean?”

When Agatha hears the panic in your voice she straightens up. “What’s wrong?”

“Wanda and Vision were attacked in Scotland,” you say quickly.

“I need you and Harkness at the jet hangar,” Steve says. “I’m sending you a car in the morning. We’ll meet you in Wakanda.”

“Wait, what? That’s all–!”

He hangs up without another word.

“What’s happening?” Agatha asks.

“I don’t know. I’m gonna go pack our stuff,” you sigh, hopping off the counter. You place a tired kiss on Agatha’s cheek as you pass her. “Steve’s sending a car in the morning to take us to Wakanda. Our vacation is officially over.”

When you land on the tarmac in Wakanda, the whole team–minus Tony and Peter–are waiting for you. You hug Wanda tightly, holding her out at arms length to look over her.

“Are you okay?” you ask. “Steve told us what happened.”

“I’m fine,” she says. “Thank you.”

Steve greets you both with a warm, “Here’s your earpiece." He hands you one each with a flat smile before everyone is escorted inside.

The information relayed to you and Agatha almost gives you a headache. “So, Thanos is coming here to wipe out the whole planet?” you ask Bruce.

“No,” he says, walking with you through the corridor. “Just half. He’s trying to get all the Infinity stones. And when he does he’ll be able to manipulate reality as he wants.”

“Like wiping out half of all living things,” Agatha sighs.

Bruce grimaces. “Yep. And two of the stones are here on Earth.”

“Which ones?” you ask.

“The Time Stone is with Dr. Strange and the Mind Stone…” Two large doors in front of you are pulled open by guards, and the view in front of you is harrowing. Vision lays on the table as a woman examines his mechanical structure. Bruce sighs, “...Is in Vision’s head.”

“Of course it is,” Agatha huffs.

An alarm sounds through Kimoyo Beads. Okoye’s palm spreads out in front of her and a white hologram of the planet is displayed. Small blinking dots surround your location and her expression is grim.

“Something’s entered the atmosphere.”

Sam’s muffled voice is heard through the earpiece. “Hey, Cap, we got a situation out here.”

“I should’ve known this was gonna happen,” Agatha mutters under her breath.

And then a loud explosion.

When you rush to the window, you see a ball of fire and smoke on top of the forcefield, and in the distance, fifteen or so more. They begin hitting the ground outside of the dome, and despite there being a forcefield, the shockwaves are still strong enough to be felt. The trees around the dome begin to catch fire and the forcefield lights up blue as it protects the citizens from the adversaries.

“It’s too late,” Vision says, standing up “We need to destroy the stone now.”

Nat turns her head quickly. “Vision, get your ass back on that table, now.”

“Wanda,” Steve says, “as soon as that stone is out of his head, you blow it to hell.”

Wanda’s face is hard and filled with determination. “I will.”

Wakandan warriors stand in battle formation. At the frontlines, you stand tall with Agatha, watching as some kind of alien quadrupeds surround the perimeter.

“You know, we’re supposed to be on the West End seeing Hamilton tonight” Agatha grumbles.

You chuckle. “Seeing the West End production of Hamilton would be much better than this.”

As the forcefield opens slowly and the aliens rush through, you rise off the ground with Agatha following. You have a birds eye view of the field now–the trees beyond the dome rustle violently as the quadrupeds sprint forward and there are even more being deployed by the spaceship.

Battle cries are shouted as every man and woman charge toward the enemy. It’s easy at first, simply flinging the animals into the air or throwing them to the side. But at the speed they’re charging, and at the speed they’re multiplying, it becomes exhausting.

You lose track of Agatha quickly when you’re on the ground. The Outriders are quick, and even with help from Nat, they’re still almost overpowering. To your right, in the near distance, you see Bucky being tackled to the ground.

Orange glows around the alien as you lift it off of him and throw it far into the distance. You walk up to him, lean down, and pick up his gun, handing it to him without a word.

“Thanks,” he huffs.

You offer him your hand to help him stand. “You’re welcome.”

When you’re up in the air again, you get the briefest flash of Agatha before you’re knocked to the ground. There’s a rumbling beneath the ground, vibrating through your chest, and when you pick yourself up, heading towards you is a row of threshers.

They’re fast, rolling over everything in their path and sparing no one and nothing. You get up quickly, searching the field desperately for Agatha, and even when you’re in the air, you can’t seem to find her. But the threshers aren’t stopping, and soldiers are being killed left and right, and–they’re glowing red.

Your head turns quickly. “Wanda, what are you doing here?” you shout.

“Go!” she yells. “I’ve got them!”

As the threshers speed away behind you, you drop back to the ground, sticking by Nat’s side. Through the herds of disgusting quadrupeds, you cover each other's backs closely.

The entire time you’re fighting, you’re also searching for Agatha. She doesn’t tend to stay on the ground during these things, and if she’s in the air, it’s pretty easy to keep track of her.

Through your mixed thoughts, you’re caught off guard and tackled into a ditch made by a thresher. The Outrider shrieks at you, hot spit splattering your face as you struggle beneath it. And then a blade is driven right through it. The beast goes limp on top of you and you heave it over as you roll onto your side.

You sneer and take Nat’s hand as you stand up. “These things are fucking disgusting. Thank you.”

“Hey, guys, we got a Vision situation here.” Sam’s voice is crackly through the earpiece, and you can just barely hear Wanda respond before she’s cut off with a grunt.

You can see her just a bit away, laying on the ground in pain. “Nat! She’s over here!”

“Go find Vision!” she calls. “I’ll help Maximoff!”

You carve a path through the quadrupeds as you fly low to the ground, still in search for Agatha. In the distance, the surrounding woods are aflame, but the aliens have seemed to have fallen back. You venture further and run straight into Steve.

“Rogers!” you call out. “Have you found Vision?”

There’s a low, gravelly voice nearby.

“I thought you were a formidable machine,” he says. “But you’re dying like any man.”

You and Steve run at a full sprint toward the man–or whatever he is–standing over Vision. Steve tackles him to the ground and before he can get up, orange strings of magic wrap around him. They lift him up in the air before slamming him back down on the hard earth.

Your name is called out by Steve, and you have less than a second to catch the spear he throws at you. And when you do, you drive it straight through the man’s chest.

The two of you run back over to Vision. His red is turning dull now and his chest is flickering from the stab wound.

“You’re gonna be okay,” Steve pants. He looks up at you and nods. “Secure the perimeter, make sure no one gets their hands on this stone.”

Loud footsteps are heard and Wanda comes barreling through the brush, dropping to her knees in front of Vision. “Are you okay?”

You do as Steve says and guards the perimeter of this small sanctuary made for Vision. It’s quite out in the woods, but it’s no longer peaceful. It’s eerie. It’s unnerving.

Steve’s voice crackles in your earpiece. “Everyone, on my position. We have incoming.”

You’re in between Wanda and Vision with Steve now, and through the brush and trees you can see the rest of the team too. But not Agatha.

A calm, but disquieting breeze starts to pick up. Everyone’s looking around–at the sky, in the trees–for any sign of commotion.

A small orb of blue light forms in mid air, surrounded by gray clouds as it grows bigger and bigger. And when it reaches its full size, he steps out.

“That’s him,” Bruce says in the earpiece. “That’s Thanos.”

Steve activates his arm shields. “Eyes up. Stay sharp.” And with no hesitation, he makes a direct run for Thanos.

Bruce is before him charging at him with full force, but he turns blue and transparent, and is lodged into a rock wall. You follow Steve, gaining air advantage, but before you can even reach Thanos, a purple light is thrusted upon you. It knocks every breath of air from your lungs as you’re launched into a tree, gasping in pain as you lay on the ground.

Your head is fuzzy, but you climb back up on your feet and make another run for Thanos, and in your peripheral vision, you finally see her. Agatha’s doing the same thing as you, as the rest of the team. Even when you’re knocked back a second time, you get up–even if you struggle. But when the Mind Stone is shattered, nobody gets up.

You lay on your back, struggling to breathe, but you still manage to roll onto your side and get up. Everyone watches as Thanos turns back the clock and takes the Mind Stone for himself. Wanda lays on the ground, unable to pick herself up, and just a few yards away Agatha is starting to sit up again.

But the Mind Stone has been placed in the gauntlet.

And there’s a bright flash and loud crack of lightning as Thor rains down his fury, right into Thanos’s chest.

He groans, and mutters something to Thor, and then, with a loud snap, there’s a bright flash of light and a wave of energy.

You get up quickly and rush over to Agatha, but you stop abruptly.

Because something doesn’t feel right.

“Agatha.”

She runs to you.

She runs quicker than her feet can carry her.

Just in time for her arms to wrap around you and bring you gently to the ground.

The birds are no longer singing. Around you, the people you’ve known and loved for the past decade are crumpling and turning to ash.

You lay across her lap, watching as pieces of you flake away. Your throat tightens and you see Agatha holding back her own tears and failing.

“Oh, god, no,” she chokes out. “No, no, no, no!”

You can already hear the grief thick in her throat, straining her voice and rouging her cheeks. You can’t tell whose tear it is, but Agatha’s thumb reaches down and wipes it off your cheek.

“I don’t wanna die,” you rasp. Your fingers claw at her jacket, desperate to stay in her arms. “I don’t wanna leave you, Agatha.”

Her hand softly strokes your hairline. “Don’t worry about me,” she sniffles. “It’ll be okay.

You nod your head lightly. “Okay…I love you,” you mutter.

And you can see it in her eyes. She wants to deny the whole thing. She doesn’t want to face the truth that she’s going to lose for good. But more and more pieces of you are flaking away. More and more of you is slipping through her grasp.

“I love you,” Agatha sobs, and presses a wet, teary kiss to your forehead. “I love you so much.”

Her hands, rough and calloused to others, but soft and warm to you, hold you tightly against her chest. You can feel her fingers digging at your scalp as she weeps into your hair.

“I love you more than anything in this world,” she mutters into your hairline. You watch as your feet disappear, and Agatha pulls away. Her hand is on your forehead, thumb stroking along your brow as she talks quietly to you.

“It’s okay,” she sniffles, lip trembling uncontrollably. Her voice is thick as your hips flake away. “You’ll be okay.” Your torso is now gone.

She sees the panic in your eyes. She sees every single day you’ve been with her. She sees every moment you’ve taken care of her when she wasn’t able to take care of herself.

Making sure she’s eaten.

Cooking because you know she’s not the best at it, and gets impatient even when scrambling eggs.

Drawing her a bath after a long day and remembering her favorite bath oils.

And when she asked you why–why you cook for her, why you wash her hair when she’s too tired to, why you do any of it–you responded with a kiss on her nose and a smile.

“Agatha, I love you. And when you love someone, you take care of them.”

The words are quiet, but they reach you as Agatha tucks a piece of hair behind your ear. “…I’ll be okay. You don’t have to worry.”

As your chest disappears she leans down quickly and kisses you one last time on the lips. “I love you.”

And that’s the end.

When she opens her eyes she’s staring at her lap.

Her jacket is weightless.

Her hands are limp, and holding nothing but the remnants of your ashes in them.

__________

It’s been just over three weeks.

Governments are in shambles.

Communities are collapsing.

But Agatha is quiet.

Agatha’s world has completely crumbled.

The only time she leaves her room is to go to the bathroom. When she showers, they’re hours long in scalding hot water. She doesn’t go down to the compound’s kitchen. She doesn’t go to any common areas. She doesn’t talk.

She lays in bed, day after day, curled into a ball and clutching your pillow to her chest. She stares anywhere but at the picture of you on her nightstand–the ceiling, the wall, the unpacked suitcase from your trip to London, where a tiny ring box sits inside.

Her tears never dry. Every part of you has influenced her life in ways she didn’t realize.

The way she folds her clothes–which now sit in heaps on the floor.

The way she makes the bed–which she now never leaves.

Even the TV in your once shared room stays on–because when you were around, it was never off. She found the idea of background noise silly, but now the room is far too quiet.

So the TV stays on.

When Agatha sleeps, it’s not for long. Dreams are vivid–the good, but mostly the bad. She sees you almost every night.

She sees you in the kitchen.

She sees you smiling and laughing.

Small feels kisses on her cheek.

She feels the touch of your hand in hers.

And then she feels the pile of your ashes in her palms, and she sees your face flake away and disappear for good.

When she wakes up, she’s screaming and sweat soaks through her shirt.

She can still feel the gritty ash and dust clinging to her palms as she rubs them together, scratching and sobbing as she tries to erase the feeling.

But it never works.

In a last ditch effort, she goes to the bathroom and runs her hands under the searing hot water until they’re red and irritated–but the gritty feeling no longer remains, and that’s what matters.

__________

It’s late at night when Tony’s brought back to Earth.

What remains of the Avengers–minus Agatha–sit at a round table. Holograms are projected and a picture of each Avengers’ face is shown.

“World governments are collapsing,” Nat explains now. “And the parts that are still working are to take a census, and it looks like he did…exactly like he said he would do. Thanos wiped out fifty percent of all living creatures.”

“Where is he now?” Tony asks. “Where?”

Steve leans against another table in the room, arms crossed and a sullen look on his face. “We don’t know. He opened a portal and walked through.”

When your headshot is shown, Tony sighs. “How’s Harkness holding up? I notice she’s not down here.”

“She hasn’t been down here in weeks,” Nat says solemnly. “She won’t come out of her room or eat–and when she does it’s not much.”

“I guess that’s what happens when you’ve known someone for a century,” Tony says. “Has anybody tried talking to her?”

“Yeah,” Nat sighs. “But she doesn’t listen.”

Tony scoffs. “She didn’t listen even when she wasn’t grieving,”

“We’ve been hunting him for weeks,” Steve continues. “Deep space cams, satellites, we got nothing. Tony, you fought him.”

Tony’s head jerks toward Steve. “Who told you that? I didn’t fight him. He wiped my face with a planet while the Bleeker Street magician gave away the store. That’s what happened. There was no fight, ‘cause he’s not beatable.”

“Did he give you any clues?” Steve asks, and both of them are becoming increasingly frustrated. “Any coordinates, anything at all?”

Tony sputters. “I saw this coming a few years back. I had a vision. I thought I was dreaming.”

“Tony, I’m gonna need you to focus,” Steve huffs.

Tony’s jaw clenches as he stares at Steve with sunken eyes. “And I needed you. As in, past tense. That trumps what you need. It’s too late, buddy.”

__________

The morning light is peeking through the curtains drawn tight over the windows. The TV is bright, with a rerun of your favorite sitcom playing.

“You need to eat something, Agatha.” There’s a plate of eggs, toast, and bacon in front of her. Natasha kneels at the bedside as Agatha stares off into space, clinging to your pillow. Her voice is soft, but there’s a twinge of begging as she continues. “You haven’t left your room in weeks, we’re worried about you.”

Agatha’s eyes are puffy and red after being pulled from a nightmare just an hour before. “Get out,” she mumbles, not making eye contact.

“No,” Nat says. “Not this time. It’s been three weeks, you need to get out of bed.” When Agatha doesn’t respond, Natasha huffs. “In two hours, we’re leaving Earth to kill Thanos.”

That grabs her attention. She doesn’t move, but her eyes finally meet Nat’s. “What?”

“We’ve been tracking the Infinity Stones,” Nat continues. “They were last used on some planet that Nebula said Thanos was going to.”

“Who the fuck is Nebula?” Agatha asks, voice thick and face puffy from crying.

Nat sighs. “It doesn’t matter. The point is…we’re killing Thanos. And when we do, we’re going to use the Infinity Stones to bring everyone back.”

“Everyone?” Agatha whispers.

Nat nods her head. “Everyone.”

Agatha slowly sits up, setting your pillow aside with a sniffle before picking the plate up. She takes a few bites of eggs, a nibble of toast, and eats one strip of bacon before setting it on the nightstand. When she stands up, there’s a newfound motivation in her bones. She wipes her tears with her sleeve and walks past Nat with her chin held high.

“Alright,” she says. “Let’s go kill Thanos.”

When Natasha leaves and Agatha is dressed, she stares at the bedroom. For the first time in weeks, she starts cleaning. She folds her laundry the way you used to–the way you’ll start doing again when you’re back. She cleans off the nightstand and dusts the frame that holds your picture, and her fingers trace over your features as she smiles sadly.

The final thing she does is make the bed. She makes the bed, because if she doesn’t, you’d bicker about it when you get home. And when she finishes–when the floor is clean, and the curtains are open, and the bed is made–she stands in the doorway looking at her work.

You’ll be back soon enough. And when you get home, she’ll gather you in her arms and press kiss after kiss to your face. She’ll laugh and cry, and she won't let go of you once. She’ll cook you your favorite meal, even though she knows you’ll end up taking over. And you’ll eat it in bed with a cheap bottle of wine on the nightstand. When you get home, life will be worth living again.

When you get home.

What a beautiful thought.

__________

“Okay, who here hasn’t been to space?” Rocket asks.

Sitting in Rocket’s ship, Agatha raises her hand with Nat, Steve, and Rhodes.

Rocket glares at them. “You better not throw up on my ship.”

Nebula’s hand lands hard on the arm of her chair. "Approaching jump in three…”

Everyone braces for the count down.

“...Two…”

Agatha grips the arms of her chair tightly.

“...One.”

There’s a loud rumble and a boom as the ship flies forward. Planets and galaxies whiz past with bursts of purples and blues. When the ship stops, everything is quiet, and through the window, a large planet with rings can be seen.

Carol leaves the ship immediately and her voice sounds over the speakers. “I’ll head down for recon.” It takes less than five minutes for Carol to return. “No satellites. No ships. No armies. No ground defenses of any kind. It’s just him.”

The air is warm and humid. Greenery and plantlife span for hundreds of miles. Everybody’s quiet as Steve goes over the plan.

“Only when Carol attacks do we go in,” he says sternly. “Once she has him, then we move.”

Bruce and Rhodes are positioned under the house, while the rest are surrounding the perimeter. Agatha can feel every ounce of grief and anger taking hold of her magic as she watches Carol shoot down from the sky.

And when she bursts through the side of the bungalow, everyone moves. Agatha throws the door open violently, jaw clenched as her hands wave and strings of purple light wrap tightly around Thanos. Bruce breaks through the ground with Rhodes and they both grab an arm, and before anything else can register Thor breaks through the ceiling and cuts the Infinity Gauntlet off.

Thanos screams in pain as Steve and Natasha walk in, but as they do, Rocket rolls the gauntlet over.

They’re gone.

The stones are nowhere to be found.

Steve looks at Thanos with nothing but hatred in his eyes. “Where are they?”

Carol tightens her chokehold on Thanos. “Answer the question,” she seethes, and Agatha’s magic wraps tighter and tighter around him.

“The universe required correction,” Thanos rasps. “After that, the stones served no purpose beyond temptation.”

“You murdered trillions!” Bruce shouts, and pushes him across the room.

Agatha’s quick on her feet, stepping forward and binding his arms to his body. Her anger is unshakeable. Her hope is shattered. And now, her hand reaches out as a band of thick purple magic glows around Thanos’s throat.

“You should be grateful!” Thanos chokes out, and Agatha’s hand tightens.

She smiles wickedly as her hand closes further, taking immense pleasure in watching him struggle. “Where are the stones?” she snarls.

“Gone,” Thanos chokes out. “Reduced to atoms.”

“You used them two days ago!” Bruce yells.

Thanos groans in Agatha’s hold. “I used the stones to destroy the stones. It nearly killed me. But the work is done.” Thanos looks at Agatha again and there’s a glint of amusement in his eyes. “And it always will be. I am inevitable.”

Agatha sneers, tears prickling her eyes as her fist closes more and Thanos squirms. “If the stones didn’t kill you, I will.”

“Wait!” Rhodes says.

Agatha snaps her head toward him and there’s venom in her eyes. “What?”

“We have to tear this place apart,” he says. “He has to be lying.”

“No,” Nebula says softly. “My father is many things, but a liar is not one of them.”

Thanos looks at Nebula, his eyes melting as he talks. “Thank you, daughter. Perhaps I judged you too harshly.”

But Nebula doesn’t respond, and nobody gets the chance to. Because in less than a second, his decapitated head is laying on the ground. His eyes, still open, stare up at Agatha as her lip trembles. She drops her hands and the glowing purple threads around him vanish and his body drops to the floor, limp.

“What did you do?” Rocket mumbles.

Thor stands there, nostrils flared, and hands clutching his axe tightly. “I went for the head.”

Agatha stares at her room–the room that you’re supposed to be back in right now. Her hand cups her mouth as tears slip down her cheeks. The door shuts and she walks further in–the bed made just for you, laundry folded the way you would’ve folded it, your phone on your nightstand, plugged into the charger with a full battery.

She sits down on the bed, her head in her hands as she sobs. “No, no, no, no!”

The TV was never turned off. Through her heavy breathing and tears, she can hear the soft voices and laugh tracks. And it’s too much.

Agatha stands up and reaches for the lamp on the nightstand. She throws it as hard as she can toward the TV, missing it by inches.

She screams as she throws more objects–bottles of perfume from the dresser shatter against the wall, books from the shelf are scattered around the room, clothes are pulled out of the dresser, and then, without thinking, her hand lands on a picture frame.

Her eyes land on your face and she stops just as she’s about to throw it across the room. She lets out a loud sob as she holds it tight against her chest, knees starting to shake as she hyperventilates as falls to the floor. She lays on her side, spit dripping from her lip and tears flowing steadily down her temple.

Agatha doesn’t move. She lays there, light headed and holding the picture of you to her chest. When there’s a knock at the door, she doesn’t get up.

Even when the familiar voices ring out on the other side.

“Agatha?” Nat calls out.

There’s another knock and Steve’s there too. “We heard screaming. Can we come in?”

She still doesn’t move.

Even when the door opens.

“Agatha?” Nat calls out softly. When she sees Agatha on the floor she sighs. She’s surrounded by glass and clothes and books with broken spines. Her hair is frizzy, her face is puffy, and she stares off into space as she mouths words to herself.

“Oh, god.” Nat kneels down and her hand gently touches her hip. “Agatha?” When her hand makes contact, Agatha jolts and grabs Nat’s hand, eyes wide and breath fast. “It’s okay!” Nat reassures her. “It’s okay.”

Agatha’s head drops back onto the floor and she closes her eyes. As Natasha carefully takes the picture of you from her hands, she speaks quietly. “Steve, can you clean up the room? I’m gonna go start a bath for her.”

Agatha sits in the bath, quiet as her knees are pulled to her chest. She stares straight ahead as Natasha washes her hair. Agatha just barely manages to dry herself off.

A soft knock on the door sounds.When Nat opens it a crack, Steve stands there with a pair of pajamas

“Here, I found some pajamas that don’t have glass on them,” he mumbles. “Also, there’s a sedative on the nightstand for her

Natasha doesn’t say anything, and only gives him a curt nod. When the door closes, Nat sets the pajamas on the counter.

When Agatha’s eyes land on them, her lip starts trembling and her throat tightens. Her fingers run over the soft cotton as she sniffles.

“Thank you,” she croaks, watching Nat leave. And when the door clicks shut, the tears start falling again. She holds your pajamas to her face, rubbing the soft fabric over her face, over her lips, burying her nose in them to smell the perfume that still lingers.

When she gets back to her room, broken glass no longer litters the floor. Books are back on the shelf, clothes are neatly folded and put back into the dresser, and the picture Agatha was clinging to is back in its rightful place on her nightstand.

She picks it up carefully, breath shaking as her fingers run over the glass. The tears don’t fall, though. Her eyes are puffy and red, but no tears fall.

“There’s a sedative right there,” Nat says, walking in with a couple blankets, a granola bar, and a bottle of water. She hands Agatha the items in her arms. “You don’t have to take it, but–oh, okay.”

Agatha takes the sedative immediately. She washes it down with the water and the granola bar.”Thank you,” she rasps. “Really.”

When Nat leaves, Agatha climbs into bed in her usual position–curled up, facing your side, and clinging to your pillow. The TV is still on and she lays there, waiting for the sedative to kick in, and letting the voices and laugh tracks lull her to sleep.

#kathryn hahn #agatha all along #agatha harkness #agatha harkness x reader

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garden-of-rambles · 16 hours ago

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OdyPen fanfiction rec Masterlist, Part 1

I'll do more of these in the future, but I wanted to make a list of some personal favorite Odypen fanfics. It's entirely possible you've read some (or all) of these, but more than anything I just wanted to show appreciation to some fics I love. You'll find both chapter and one shot recs here, and I'll be trying to spotlight some new stuff as well. I've mentioned some of these on this blog before, but all of these stories deserve as much praise as they can get.

I'll start with one-shots, then chapter fics, with mention of which are completed or still ongoing stories. They'll have varying ratings, up to E, so keep that in mind. If any of these interest you, please go check them out, and leave comments!

Oh, and I'll only be recommending one specific fic from each author (otherwise many of them would be featured more than once) but I will bring up if they have other fics to check out.

Links and summaries for all the stories, as well as mentions of specific things in them I really loved, will be found below the cut.

One-shots:

(Note: some of these are part of a series with other one-shots, and I'll mention it if they are)

half of me is you by i_waited_two_weeks_for_this_shit

Summary:

She twists the string tied around her finger. It’s a bright, glorious red. The colour of the blood that flows in her veins, the strong texture of the wool she spins into thread in her weaving, and she chooses to believe that it means he is alive. It falls over the edge of the bed, twisting its way across the floor and out the window ledge. If she squints, she can see it fall over and onto the island, making its way across the beaches and shores. It falls into the water and disappears, and this is the way it has been for thirteen years. - For twenty years, Penelope sits in her grief, the only thing to comfort her the string around her finger, and the memory of her husband.

What I really love: the writing is great, but in particular the unique take on the 'thread of fate' idea, and how it is incorporated into Penelope's weaving is super interesting and the whole thing makes me very emotional.

Smartest Girl in the Game by Anchestor

Summary:

As kings and princes flock to Sparta, vying for Helen, it's clear that Penelope and Clytemnestra will serve as consolation prizes. As the other men strut around like peacocks, one suitor catches Penelope's eye: the little king of barren Ithaca. Now she needs make sure to catch his eye in turn. Or, how to woo a cutie when propriety demands you can't, like, talk to each other

What I really love: If you want young odypen flirting with each other by playing games and using secret messages and matching each other's freak in a way that leaves everyone else confused? This one-shot is for you.

To Live, to Lose, and to Live Anyway by holyflyingswisscheese

Summary: This is part of a series called 'The King of Ithaca is Home' but this part is still its own stand alone one-shot.

“I wish you did not have to see this,” Odysseus says. “The man I have become…” “Is still the man I married,” Penelope finishes. “Whom I love with all my heart and vowed to never leave. He is still you.” The king of Ithaca returned last night. His first week home, told through the voice of the woman who loves him most.

What I really love: The heavy focus on recovery in this one! It can be a heavy and painful read at times, but also very lovely and comforting. The other parts of the series are worth checking out too!

Chapter Fics:

again, even though we know love's landscape by formerstingray

Summary: Completed.

Again and again, even though we know love’s landscape and the little churchyard with its lamenting names and the terrible reticent gorge in which the others end: again and again the two of us walk out together under the ancient trees, lay ourselves down again and again among the flowers, and look up into the sky. - Rainer Maria Rilke. / Odysseus and Penelope meet and fall in love. He goes to war. And, twenty years later, it happens all over again.

What I really love: Is it bad if I just say everything? This series covers both their meeting and wedding, as well as their years apart, and all of it is lovely and devastating as needed. You can read almost any part of the series in any order you want to, but it also reads well in sequence. Really great interactions between the two characters in this one.

My Love I Kept You Well by thehouseofblack

Summary: Completed.

Aphrodite had foreseen Paris' triumph – her triumph, in truth. The moment his eyes would fall upon Helen of Sparta, he would understand: this was the reward for his devotion, this was the woman the gods themselves had deemed worthy of a prince so favoured. She had not foreseen his rejection. Had not expected him to turn away from the prize she had laid before him, to spurn the very woman he had once coveted with all his heart. Nor had she anticipated that his desire would stray – not to another queen, most certainly not to Helen’s own cousin. Penelope of Sparta. (Or, after coming across a portrait of Penelope during his time in Sparta, Paris of Troy switches his kidnapping victim from Helen to Penelope. This proves far more detrimental than anyone could have imagined - a spark burning so bright that even the Gods on Olympus are caught in its flames.)

What I really love: I was soooo torn on if I wanted to recommend this or one of their other fics, as there is a lot of great stuff to choose from! But MLIKYW is one of my favorites, and while it can be a rough read it does so many interesting things with Penelope and Odysseus as characters and is incredibly well written. Plus, while I'm no historian, reading fics from this author always comes across as more "authentic" in terms of representing the time period than most other fics, which is another feature I really like. This was also one of the earliest fics I read to completion in the fandom, and it will always hold a very special place in my heart because of that.

(oh, and if you're a multishipper for this fandom, there's tons of fics by this same author in that vein -- lots of OdyDioPen and the like. It's not my thing, but it's all excellently written!)

Baselia by DAYAGOLD

Summary: Completed.

Penelope's life in Sparta since after she meets an odd boy in an olive grove. Leads through them falling in love and getting married.

What I really love: all the young odypen cuteness you could want. Seriously, that's what brings me back to it again and again, when I have reached my angst overload and just need to drown in them being sweet with each other. It started as a series of drabbles, but the chapters get longer as it goes.

and all the years we should have had by jamais_vuO

Summary: Currently updating. The ship came to their shores in the third year after the war ended. One ship, just one, and Penelope stood on the clifftop near her husband’s palace and looked down upon the harbor below, and clenched her fist in her himation until it was wrapped around her so tight that it was imprinting its weave pattern onto her skin. Just one ship, and the men she could see disembarking were too few to be fifty, and none turned to hare instantly up the hill towards her. Penelope turned away to head into the palace, to wait for the bad news to find her. (odysseus chooses to sacrifice himself, and penelope chooses not to let him go)

What I really love: The way Penelope is written, and how it doesn't villainize Eurylochus! I'm a sucker for the premise of Odypen successfully pulling off an Orpheus and Eurydice thing, and I like the idea of Penelope being the one venturing into the Underworld to get her husband back.

Threads Undone by Tamorasky

Summary: Currently updating

It was not as the Fates intended. There was to be a marriage bed, a son, and twenty years of waiting. But King Icarius denies Odysseus his daughter’s hand, and the thread begins to fray. Penelope of Sparta—clever, quiet, and promised to no man—is swept from her home on a tide of stolen love and war. Now a stranger in Troy, Penelope is caught between warring gods, mortal ambition, and a war never meant to be hers. As alliances crumble and empires burn, one woman’s defiance may alter the course of fate itself.

What I really love: There have been a few "Odysseus saves Penelope from Troy" AUs and a lot of them are great in their own way, but this one is definitely going about it in a unique manner. It's not super far into the story yet, but already the interactions between the characters have been very interesting, and I'm looking forward to more!

the trillium by lostintranslation

Summary: Currently updating

One soul, one mind, two bodies. The story of Penelope and Odysseus.

What I really love: that first chapter is basically entirely vignettes of young Odypen being cute, and I know it will only make the following chapters more painful haha! Only one chapter is out so far, but I really enjoyed it. I almost recommended some of this author's one-shots instead (and I do encourage checking those out) but I really liked this first part of the story and wanted to recommend it!

Bury the Sea by paigian

Summary: Currently updating, will finish soon, also part of a larger series called 'Tell Me About a Complicated Man' that includes one-shots that are also must-reads.

The wind comes early, salt-laced and restless, tugging at the sails before the sun has fully risen. The sea is silver in the half-light, gleaming like a blade. A dozen black ships line the shore, each a beast of burden groaning under the weight of war—of spears and shields, of men too young and men already weary, six hundred in all. Horses stamp and snort. Armour glints faintly. The world smells of brine and bronze and things left unsaid. And there is the horizon, wide and unblinking, where the gods keep their secrets. Already, Ares drums his fingers against his shield. Athena watches from behind a veil of cloud, sharp-eyed and silent. Apollo cords his bow in the east. Even the Fates lean in, breathless. The heavens tilt toward bloodshed. But the dawn stretches her fingers across the sky, rosy and pale, as though the morning itself hesitates—softening what must be done. Odysseus steps forward. His cloak hangs from his shoulders, sword glinting beneath it at his hip. He looks impossibly far away already, though he hasn’t left yet. But his eyes—his eyes are on her.

A dual-timeline look at Odysseus and Penelope—memory and absence side by side.

What I really love: I have to try to keep this section small, because otherwise I would gush forever, but the works in this 'Tell Me About a Complicated Man' series are genuinely not just some of my favorite fics in this fandom, but some of my favorite fics period. If you like Odypen and haven't started reading this yet, I cannot tell you enough how much you are missing out. The characterization and prose are all top-notch, and I have literally read all of the fics in this series an embarrassing number of times. Please go read and comment on this fic you guys <3

Okay, that is it for this first fanfiction rec masterpost! There are a lot of other great ones out there that I didn't mention yet so as to save them for other posts in the future. I'm also always on the lookout for new stuff, or stories I haven't encountered before.

I hope this shines a spotlight on some fanfics that truly deserve all the attention in the world. <3 Thanks for reading, and please do check out these stories and leave comments!

#odypen #odypen fanfic recs #odypen fanfiction #odypen fanfic #odysseus and penelope #penelope and odysseus #odysseus/penelope #odysseus x penelope #epic fanfic #epic the musical #epic the musical fanfic #penelope x odysseus #epic penelope #epic odypen #epic odysseus

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f1amour · 7 months ago

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「 ✦ F1 GRID — LETS GET PHYSICAL

˖ ࣪ 𖥔 navigation. | requests — open | main masterlist (coming soon)

drivers included | max verstappen, charles leclerc, carlos sainz, lando norris, oscar piastri, daniel ricciardo, franco colapinto, lewis hamilton

description | drivers and their favorite kinks

content warnings | mature content ahead — 18+ only, minors do not interact

authors note | hope everyone enjoys reading this one! if you have any requests for drabbles or blurbs involving those i write for please send it in and i will try to get it out as soon as possible <3 *not spelled checked*

─────────────────────────

— 𝐌𝐀𝐗 𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐏𝐏𝐄𝐍 ¹

҉ PRAISE KINK !

— whether he praised you or you praised him; max verstappen was an absolute whore for praising

— both in public and behind closed doors he would take the praises only from you. being a three time world champion as many reminded him of his accomplishments he’d down play it. but you? oh he loved when you’d sing his praises

— “you did so great out there, maxie. no one does it like you.” praising him in public after a great race would look like that. behind closed doors was another story; “right there, max. fuck you’re doing so well keep going.” “only you know my body, no one compares”

— on the other hand max loved praising you and he was an absolute menace for it when he’d have you bent over the bed fucking you with his hands gripping your hair; “come on, baby. squeezing me so tight you love being handled like this, hmm?” “you’re doing so well for me, baby.” “such a good girl for me.”

҉ QUICKIES !

— max loved taking his time with you but with his busy schedule especially on race weekends he couldn’t give you enough time. however, he always made the most of the 10-20 minutes you had together on any occasion.

— whether it be 10 minutes before he’s gotta go out for the national anthem or 15 minutes before he is due to attend the press conference he would grab you and take you in any room that had a lock. “fuck that’s it, you’re doing so good for me baby.” “gonna have you cum three times before i gotta be out there in ten minutes. you like that?”

— 𝐂𝐀𝐑𝐋𝐎𝐒 𝐒𝐀𝐈𝐍𝐙 ⁵⁵

҉ HAIR PULLING KINK !

— the man has beautiful hair…how can he not have a hair pulling kink?

— carlos loved pulling your hair whether it was while you rode his cock or he was taking you from behind; he loved having his hands in your hair

— but it was when you pull his hair that really gets him going both intimately but whenever you’d be watching a movie or out with friends your hand would go to the nape of his neck and travel up to his hair giving it a soft tug

— between your legs carlos is eating you out both sloppily and hungrily, tongue against your aching core his fingers now at your entrance giving you extra pleasure when they’re stretching you out, “fuck. just like that carlos,” you tangle your fingers in his hair giving it a rough tug when he rubs his thumb on your clit

— every thrust his fingers would give your cunt and tongue giving your folds so much attention you’d tug his hair closer to your pussy if that was possible; “fuck, baby, do that again. harder.” “god, hermosa, gonna make me cum in my pants if you keep pulling my hair like that.” “right there, keep doing that princesa. wanna suffocate in your pussy.”

҉ DIRTY TALK !

— his native language being spanish played a role in his love for dirty talking he loved the reaction he’d get out of you when you’d hear him speaking to you in spanish

— morning, noon, night; carlos fucked you any moment he had some free time which was rare but on those occasions he did he make sure to speak his dirty thoughts of you: and to you

— “fuck, my good girl, chokin’ on my cock” “that’s it, hermosa. let them all hear whose fucking your tight pussy…the only man who makes you cum.” “te ves tan perfecta para mí de rodillas llena de mí. mi bella princesa.”

— 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐋𝐄𝐒 𝐋𝐄𝐂𝐋𝐄𝐑𝐂 ¹⁶

҉ ORAL !

— charles loved having you on your knees mouth stuffed with his cock. your lips showing his tip some extra love with a few kisses after finishing in your mouth and you’d take him once again pulling him in your mouth again for another round.

— what he loved the most though? spending hours in between your thighs giving you multiple orgasms until you are begging him to stop (very rare to want him to stop)

҉ ROUGH SEX !

— despite seemingly carrying a calm demeanor around friends & family behind closed doors charles loved being rough with you in bed. especially after yet another week where ferrari fucks up his race he feels the best place to let out his stress and anger is on you. which you gladly took.

— rough and sloppy kisses you share entering his hotel room to his rough hands pushing you onto the bed and fucking you with his fingers until you’re squirting all over him and the bedsheets.

— your face pressed down on the mattress while he takes you from behind arching your back and yanking on your hair pulling you close to his chest he’d give you another rough thrush while whispering the most vulgar sentences to come out of his mouth.

— 𝐋𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐎 𝐍𝐎𝐑𝐑𝐈𝐒 ⁴

҉ COCKWARMING !

— sometimes being weeks apart from each other you wanted to feel as close as possible while catching up on what you’d miss. you’d get settled on his lap moaning at the feeling of him stretching you after being gone for so long. you’d get comfortable and you would both talk about what you had been up to the last few weeks

— streaming with max you’d make sure his camera was off before you climbed on his lap. he would be confused as to what you were doing but the moment you take his cock out of his briefs and sinking down on him he’d hold his moans in and grab your waist pulling you closer.

- turning his mic off he lets out a whine when you rock your hips against him, “fuck, baby, can’t do this right now i’m so close to winning.” you’d agree with him and tell him to finish the game you’ll just wait for him; still sitting on him with his cock deep inside you. safe to say he lost the game just to play again, enjoying the feeling of his cock resting inside you

҉ SHOWER SEX !

— lando loved it when he’d be showering and you’d join him halfway through giving him some extra attention that he desperately wanted. he loved the intimacy about it when you’d help rinse of the shampoo in his hair or how he’d glide the body gel all over your body

— you loved it when it was a post race win or podium and he’d drag you to the small bathroom in his drivers room and shove you against the shower wall giving your pussy some extra love while you pull on his hair before he would have his cock shoved deep in your aching cunt, getting some loud moans out of you which he’d cover up with a kiss

— 𝐋𝐄𝐖𝐈𝐒 𝐇𝐀𝐌𝐈𝐋𝐓𝐎𝐍 ⁴⁴

҉ PHONE SEX !

— being a formula 1 driver was a demanding job which required lewis to travel almost all year long and you couldn’t always go along with him due to your job. you missed him all the time when he was gone but especially on the days when you were extra needy were the worst

— that’s why he’d stay on the phone with you all day despite his busy schedule. he’d have one airpod in while having to be in a meeting not listening to the less important subjects so he’d listen to you and what you were doing for the day

— but then on days where your vibrator wasn’t enough you’d call or facetime your boyfriend begging him to help you through your orgasm, it also helped that he had the most soothing voice that constantly brought you to tears when he’d have your face shoved on the mattress, ass pressed against him as he fucked you

— “oh…’m so close, lew” you’d whimper through the facetime call, your phone propped against your nightstand while you grind your aching cunt against a pillow. desperately needing more release your reach to rub your clit when lewis’ voice fills the phone, “i didn’t say you could do that, did i?” he questions, he was due to be in the media pen in 10 minutes but he wouldn’t let you take the easy way out to cum before he left

— “please, baby, need to cum please,” you beg lewis as your movements speed up. “don’t use your hand. keep fucking youself on my pillow, i’ll be home in a few days and take such good care of you. that’s it baby, be a good girl and cum for me.” his encouragement is more than enough to have you squeezing your breasts and nipples as your release spills all over the pillow

҉ MIRROR SEX !　

— you weren’t sure if it was you or lewis who decided adding a mirror to the ceiling of your bedroom was the best option for your sex life but either way you were two happy people

— you enjoyed watching lewis fucking you his eyes meeting your through the mirror; he loved having you bounce on his cock watching the way you threw your head back moans filling the room. he loved it so much he requested his drivers room to have a mirror on the ceiling as well. after many warnings not to they finally gave in and gave him what he (and you) wanted

— his hand around your throat with two fingers deep inside your pussy he’d whisper dirty thoughts into your ear, “you look so pretty for me like this. wanna see you cum for me, sweet girl. that’s it you’re squeezing my fingers so good,” you’d bite your lip trying to suppress your moans in the small room knowing anyone walking by could easily hear you

— 𝐎𝐒𝐂𝐀𝐑 𝐏𝐈𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐑𝐈 ⁸¹

҉ DRY HUMPING !　

— again, being a formula one driver was a demanding sport. a demanding sport that kept your sex life with oscar very low many, many, many times. so when you had the chance to feel a little bit closer to your boyfriend you took the chance.

— whether against the wall of his drivers room with your clothed pussy rubbing against his race suit or in bed on his lap before ha has to catch a flight to the next race; you were both absolutely infatuated with each other and dry humping

— drivers room; oscar would be leaned up against the wall while your hips grind against his thigh, “osc,” you whine as he moves your panties to the side rubbing your clit while you con the to fuck yourself on him, “shh, be a good girl for me and stay quiet. then after the race i’ll stuff you full of my cock all night.” his words have you biting down on his shoulder as you cum all over his thigh

҉ SQUIRTING !　

— he had discovered this one night while you both watched a movie, laying between his thighs your head pressed against his chest his hand trailed down to your shorts pulling them off with nothing else underneath he worked his fingers inside you. soon enough you had squirted all over his hand and bedsheets; a first for both of you

— that just started something inside oscar which was wanting to make you squirt any chance he got. you could be exhausted from work or a long flight but you’d let him have his way with you. at the end you’d be filling the room with sounds of pleasure as his fingers or cock fucked your tight cunt until he reached the exact spot that had you squirting all over him

— "so wet for me, and so fuckin' tight." "i can feel how close you are baby, gonna make a mess all over our sheets, hmm?" he praises you, his fingers curling deep inside you. his groans and your moans fill the room as you squirt all over his hand and sheets making a mess like he had said. pulling away from you he now plays between your thighs and smiles up at you, “time to clean this mess up.”

— 𝐅𝐑𝐀𝐍𝐂𝐎 𝐂𝐎𝐋𝐀𝐏𝐈𝐍𝐓𝐎 ⁴³

҉ DIRTY TALK !　

— you’ve seen franco in interviews he was a talker so it wasn’t a surprised he was a talker behind closed doors as well. he had a filthy mouth on him when it came to you and he never stopped praising you

— “eso es amor, apretándome tan bien. let me hear your pretty moans.” “cum all over my cock, amor. fuck, fuck—look so perfect for me.” “gonna let me fuck you against the door? gonna make sir everyone hears what a filthy whore you are.” you’d think by now you’d get tired of his constant yapping (sometimes you did) but when he fucked you? you loved hearing his voice the entire time

҉ ORAL !　

— the man was good with his tongue what more could you say? he was infatuated with having his tongue on your pussy for hours on end tasting how sweet you were. buried between your thighs as your hand stung on his hair, whines and moans escape your mouth begging him for more

— “franco, ‘m so close, right there,” you gasp feeling his tongue poking in your cunt as he devours you, “es todo princesa, déjalo ir por mí. mierda. sabes tan dulce.” you cum and he doesn’t let a drop escape his tongue as he licks you clean

— 𝐃𝐀𝐍𝐈𝐄𝐋 𝐑𝐈𝐂𝐂𝐈𝐀𝐑𝐃𝐎 ³ [retired]

҉ THIGH RIDING !　

— the man had a tattooed thigh…how could you not want to ride it? it first started on a night out with friends enjoying the sunset at the beach when daniel placed you on his lap your hand traced circles on the tattoos that littered his thigh; one thing led to another and you snuck off to the car and he let your imaginations come to life

— at a club filled with loud music and dark lights you’d take advantage of the moment and grind yourself on his thigh enjoying the feeling, at home while he works on sending out some emails you’d keep him company with your core pressing against his thigh, anyplace and anywhere you were a menace for his thighs

— he loved it too, so much he’d started adding some more tattoos to his collection on his thighs which made you even more excited to ride him only to wait until he was healed to do so. you could ride his other thigh but something about fucking yourself on his tattooed thigh felt so so much more enthralling

— “you look so pretty like this, ridin' my thigh...makin' yourself cum.” “make yourself cum on my thigh right now, good girl. feels good, doesn't it?” his encouraging words bringing you to your third orgasm of the night just form riding his thigh, “come on, honey, gonna give me one more then i’ll fuck you for however long you want”

҉ FILMING !

— daniel loved having videos or pictures of the activities you got up to in the bedroom with each other. he loved watching the videos while he was away from you weeks on end. however, he loved it more whenever you got the chance to film each other especially for fun not because he’ll be gone for a few weeks and needed someone to fill the void

— daniel comfortably laying down between your thighs lapping at you like there’s no tomorrow, “danny, feel so good…oh,” you whine trying to hold the camera that was pointed at him steadily but you were so close. “that’s it baby, cum all over me you taste so fucking sweet. could never get enough of this,” he says only getting a second to breathe before he’s diving back between your thighs to bring you to your second orgasm of the night

— you loved the risk of having an album on your phones that were filled of videos and pictures of the two of you or sometimes of just one of you. you’d created a small album curated for daniel filled of pictures of you in lingerie or fully nude; the videos were another story. filled with you fucking yourself with your fingers, vibrator, a pillow; you made sure daniel was fulfilled for the weeks he wouldn’t have you

— daniel made a small photo album for you as well more so filled of the two of you, he knew how much you loved rewatching the videos of you two fucking. you loved the way he propped the camera against the nightstand and had you riding his cock until you begged him to let you cum or the time he fucked you in his drivers room facing the mirror on his door his hands on your breasts squeezing them while you rode him back against his chest holding onto the camera shakily and almost dropping it when he’d thrust up into your cunt

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lupinqs · 1 month ago

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THE TONIGHT SHOW ━━ paige bueckers x actress!reader

☆ ━ summary: a talk show, an after party, and far too much champagne leads paige bueckers straight to you.

☆ ━ word count: 9.5K

☆ ━ warnings: smut (scissoring, oral, fingering)

☆ ━ links: my masterlist

☆ ━ author’s note: shameless timmy chalamet cameo because i love him…. anyways that pic with p and the champagne single-handedly revived my writing

THE DRESSING ROOM is loud, but in a muted way—voices murmuring over each other, flat irons hissing like snakes, the faint thump of bass through the walls as the Tonight Show band rehearses. You’re sitting in a high-backed chair, eyes half-lidded, a stylist brushing highlighter onto your cheekbone while someone else carefully curls the ends of your hair. You’re barely paying attention, letting yourself be fussed over like a human Barbie. You’re used to it by now.

Timothée’s sprawled on the little velvet couch behind you, legs hanging over the arm like a spider that’s given up. He’s buzzing, as usual, knee bouncing, fingers drumming against his thigh. You love him, but he never seems to run out of energy. You glance at him in the mirror as he tosses a piece of popcorn in the air and catches it with his mouth. Barely.

“Missed,” you mutter.

He gasps like you insulted his lineage. “Just untruthful.”

You grin, but your attention shifts. Something itches in your brain—some piece of information you forgot to check.

“What’s the lineup tonight?” you ask, voice pitched slightly above the hum around you.

The girl doing your hair, her name’s Rachel you think, nods absently as she wraps another section around the curling iron. “Rami Malek’s first, then you two. Oh, and I think Paige Bueckers has a little cameo. She’s crashing the monologue but doesn’t have an interview.”

Timothée sits up like he’s just heard his name. “Ohhh, because they won the natty, right?”

Rachel nods, unfazed. “Yeah. She’s just doing a little bit with Jimmy to start the show. Real quick thing.”

“Damn,” Timothée whistles low, like he’s genuinely impressed. “She a hooper, for real. I wanna meet her.”

You roll your eyes playfully but don’t say anything right away. Of course you know who Paige Bueckers is. Everyone does right now.

A few days ago, you watched her team win the national championship. You weren’t at home or anything sentimental—just curled up in your trailer between night shoots, a bowl of cereal in your lap and your assistant’s login for ESPN on your phone. But you’d watched her. The way she moved. The way she led.

You’re not a basketball diehard by any means, but the big stuff? You pay attention. And Paige is big. A name on the rise. A face that teenage girls across America are scribbling in the margins of their notebooks, reposting edits of on TikTok, screaming about like she’s Harry Styles during prime One Direction days. The girl’s got motion.

You don’t know what it is about her. Maybe it’s the way she smiles when she’s caught off guard or how she carries herself like she doesn’t care at all what anyone thinks. Or maybe it’s just the fact that she’s hot and tall and athletic and entirely too marketable.

Timothée tosses another piece of popcorn into his mouth. “What do you think she’s like?”

You laugh, rolling your eyes a little. Your co-star loves sports and Paige has been the biggest name in them this week. “I don’t know. Cool, probably.”

He nods along, chewing his popcorn. “Well, duh. She’s an athlete. They’re all cool.” (Case in point.)

You nod slowly, lips parting but not quite moving yet. You’ve been in rooms with world-famous people, with actors who have Oscars and musicians who have egos the size of planets. But there’s something about athletes—especially ones who just won something. There’s a heat to them, a freshness. Like they’re alive in a way everyone else is pretending to be.

“D’you think she’ll still be here after the show?” Timothée asks curiously. “Maybe at the after-thing?”

You hum, noncommittal.

But secretly, you hope so too.

Not that you’re planning anything. Not that it matters. You’re just curious.

That’s all.

And then—it’s time for rehearsal. Nothing new. You and Timothée are ushered through narrow hallways that smell faintly of hairspray and cold brew, past stagehands with headsets and clipboards. Jimmy’s warm-up guy gives you a quick wave. Someone hands you a printout with a few of the pre-cleared talking points: talk about the shoot in Italy, Timothée’s improv moment in the cafe scene, your character’s breakdown, funny story about the crying scene.

The usual fluff.

You barely glance at it. You and Timmy have done this song and dance enough times to know that the real magic happens when you ignore the cards and just talk.

Still, you sit side by side on the little couch in the green room, tossing lines back and forth as if you’re already on air.

“Okay,” Timmy says, clearing his throat in an exaggerated newscaster voice. “Tell me, what was it like doing another film where all you do is cry?”

You snort. “Life-changing. I mean, I think I’ve really got it down now. You, on the other hand…”

“Hey!” he clutches his chest dramatically. “I cried some beautiful tears.”

“Uh-huh.”

You’re both still laughing as the stage manager pokes her head in. “We’re about to get to your segment. Paige just finished her bit.”

At the mention of her name, something flickers in your chest—quick and sharp, like a spark. You don’t know why. You don’t even know her. You just saw her on TV a few days ago, limbs outstretched and screaming at the buzzer with the rest of her team swarming her like bees to honey.

Now she’s here, in the building. Probably just down the hall.

Timothée, of course, notices your shift. “You nervous?” he teases, nudging your shoulder.

You shake your head. “Nah.”

You don’t elaborate.

The rest of it happens fast.

They mic you up, fluff your hair one last time, and lead you through the wings toward the main stage. Jimmy’s voice floats through the air as he wraps up a bit with the band. The audience laughs, and the floor vibrates faintly with applause.

“Alright,” Jimmy grins, turning toward the camera. “Coming up next, two of my favorite people!” He calls your name and then Timothée’s, ushering you both onto the stage.

The applause swells like a wave. The music kicks in. You walk out with Timmy beside you, the lights hitting hard and hot, but you don’t flinch. You smile. You wave. You hug Jimmy and sit down on the couch, legs crossed, posture perfect. Timmy hams it up immediately, pointing at the crowd and then at you like, can you believe this woman? The audience eats it up.

It’s easy. Familiar. You talk about the movie. Timmy tells the story of how the gelato stand you filmed at got mobbed by fans. You talk about a scene that took eight takes because the wind kept flipping your hair into your mouth. Jimmy laughs too hard. The audience claps on cue.

And somewhere, offstage—maybe leaning against a wall or scrolling through her phone—Paige Bueckers is watching.

Maybe.

Not that it, like, matters.

PAIGE ISN’T USED to feeling like this.

She’s good with people. Always has been. Her dad used to say she could talk to a brick wall and get it to smile. She knows how to work a room, can flip the switch between lowkey and charismatic like it’s nothing. And normally, this kind of party would be her sweet spot—music pulsing, champagne in hand, famous people milling around.

But she’s been a little overwhelmed—and who can blame her? The last few days have been a whirlwind—interviews, flights, appearances, more interviews. Since the natty win, her world’s been spinning faster than usual, and not even her extroversion can keep up with the pace forever.

She’s grateful that Azzi and Kaitlyn are here with her. They’re posted up by the bar, all of them sipping champagne and trying to stay nonchalant, even though they just met Alicia Keys and Azzi legitimately had to walk away before she burst into tears.

“She said she watched the game,” Kaitlyn says, shaking her head in disbelief and swirling her glass.

“She said she loved my jumper,” Paige deadpans.

Paige lets the conversation blur around her, her eyes scanning the room over the rim of her glass. It’s crowded with beautiful, wildly successful people. She recognizes singers, actors, athletes. Everyone smells expensive and looks like they floated in from a campaign shoot.

Then she sees you.

You’re wearing a black dress that makes her blink twice. It clings in all the right places, dips a little lower than should be legal, and your hair is tucked behind one ear like you’re unaware of how gorgeous you look. Or maybe you are aware. Maybe that’s the point.

You’re deep in conversation with Kylie Jenner, who’s leaning in close, sipping on something pink and fizzy. Timothée Chalamet is perched beside you, laughing at something Kylie says, his hand tapping against her hip.

You look… perfect. Fuckable. Edible. Paige knows that it’s probably disrespectful to think of you like that when she’s never even spoken to you, but—damn—she can’t help herself.

Of course, she recognizes you instantly. She’s seen all your movies. Follows you on Instagram. Knows which photo you posted after the Venice premiere because she may or may not have saved it. She’s watched interviews you’ve done, including the one tonight with Jimmy Fallon and Timothée.

“You should go talk to her,” Azzi says beside her, like she’s been waiting for the moment Paige would finally catch up.

Paige startles slightly. “What?”

“You’ve been staring. Go rub your hands together and rizz her up or something,” Kaitlyn adds, laughing a little at the end. Azzi does, too.

“I haven’t—” Paige scoffs. “Fine, maybe a lil.”

Azzi nudges her with her elbow. “She’s right there. Just go say hi.”

“Yeah, because that won’t be weird. ‘Hi, I’m Paige, I’m a fan, please marry me.’” The blonde gives her best friend a look.

Kaitlyn grins. “You’ve said worse to girls you weren’t obsessed with.”

“I’m not obsessed with her.”

Azzi lifts a brow.

“… I’m just aware of her existence,” Paige mutters into her champagne.

She turns back toward you just in time to catch you laughing at something Kylie says. It’s a real laugh—head tilted back slightly, hand brushing your collarbone. You’re flushed with happiness or alcohol or both. Timothée leans toward you to whisper something in your ear, and you swat him away like a brother, grinning the whole time.

You look like a dream Paige isn’t sure she’s allowed to have.

Azzi nudges her again. “Go.”

“I’m waiting til she’s not surrounded.”

“She’s never not gonna be surrounded. That’s the point of people like her. They orbit.”

Paige sips her drink, hesitating. You glance up—just for a second—and Paige swears you catch her watching. Your gaze flits past, then back again, like you’re registering her face. There’s a pause, something unreadable in your expression, and then Kylie tugs at your wrist and you look away.

Paige exhales. She takes a sip of her champagne. She’s going to stay nonchalant. If she gets the opportunity to talk to you—later, maybe—then she will. But not right now.

Or, well, actually, maybe right now.

Because when she turns her head to look back at where you were previously standing, all she sees is Timothée Chalamet is walking toward the bar.

And you’re by his side.

You’re a few feet away, pausing just short of the counter to place a drink order. You laugh at something Timothée says, one hand resting loosely on the curve of your hip, the other reaching for a cocktail menu you probably won’t read. Paige’s eyes catch on the way your dress rides up just slightly as you lean forward, the way your hair falls over your shoulder, and it’s almost enough to knock the air out of her chest and send heat to her stomach.

She forces herself to look cool, calm. Like she belongs here. Like she’s not actively freaking out about the fact that the actress she might, sort of, maybe be lowkey obsessed with is now ten feet away ordering a drink.

And then it happens.

Timothée glances across the bar, eyes scanning lazily—until they land on her.

His whole face lights up. Like, visibly. Like they’re old friends or something.

“Yoooo! Paige!” he says, grinning, like he’s been waiting all night to spot her.

Paige blinks, actually looks behind her to make sure he means her.

“You’re Paige Bueckers, right?” he continues, already stepping closer. “Yo, I watched the championship game. You’re nasty. Ate them gamecocks up.”

Paige lets out a short laugh, genuinely caught off guard. “You watched?”

“‘Course I did, bro!” His grin widens, like it’s insane she didn’t believe. “I’ve been following y’all forever. Y’all are hoopers.”

Kaitlyn is already whispering to Azzi, probably something like what the hell is happening right now, but Paige tries not to pay attention to that. She holds her champagne glass a little tighter and nods coolly.

“Appreciate it, man. That means a lot,” she says, managing to keep her voice steady. “These are my teammates, Azzi and Kaitlyn.”

Paige watches as Timothée daps both of them up, his whole body buzzing—probably with champagne. “Nice to meet you guys. Love both your games, for real.”

And then Paige sees it—the way his eyes flick back to you as the bartender slides your drink across the counter. You’re turning to say thank you, lifting the glass to your lips. And then, without warning, Timothée reaches out, both hands grabbing onto your shoulders.

“Yo, you gotta meet someone,” he says, steering you gently but decisively in their direction. “Come here.”

You glance over, a little curious but not annoyed, your gaze settling on Paige and her friends as you approach. Paige straightens up slightly—not noticeably, she hopes—but she can already feel the warmth rising in her chest.

“This,” Timothée says, pulling you in beside him, “is Paige Bueckers. Bucketssss!” The way he drags out the second word leads Paige to believe he’s had one too many champagnes.

You smile easily, glossy lips pulling up at the corners. “Yeah, I know who she is.”

Paige feels her brain short-circuit for just a second.

Your voice is soft but certain, laced with that familiar confidence she’s seen in your interviews. And now it’s directed at her.

She nods, flashes a small grin. She hopes she seems chill. “Aye, good to know I’m not invisible.”

You laugh, and Paige swears the whole party sound dips out behind it. “Not even close.”

“This is Azzi and Kaitlyn,” Paige adds, gesturing toward her teammates, desperate to keep the conversation moving so she doesn’t drown in her own nerves.

You offer both of them a quick wave, clearly familiar enough with sports to know names, but you’re focused mostly on Paige now. And that’s dangerous.

Because up close, you’re even more stunning. Your dress dips just slightly in the front, and the shape of your cleavage makes Paige want to forget how to speak English. She reminds herself—she’s fine. She’s got game. She’s been in tougher spots than this.

But your eyes flick down her frame briefly—just a flash—and then back to her eyes. You tilt your head a little, smile. And she thinks, maybe she doesn’t.

“You played great in March, by the way. I saw that forty piece.”

Paige raises a brow, impressed. Her forty piece wasn’t in the natty or Final Four—it was in the Sweet Sixteen. So, maybe you weren’t just watching to watch. Maybe. “You watched that game?”

You shrug, taking another sip of your drink. “I dabble in excellence.”

Timothée lets out a loud drunken laugh beside you, “Dabble in excellence—I’m stealing that.”

Paige’s grin widens. “You can’t just dabble in March.”

“Guess I’m a committed fan, then,” you say casually, and God, you really don’t play fair.

Azzi catches Paige’s eye behind your back, giving her the most painfully obvious oh, you’re screwed face. Paige ignores her entirely.

“Well,” Paige says, lifting her glass toward yours, “cheers, then.”

You clink glasses with her, your fingers brushing against hers briefly. “Cheers.”

And it’s not flirty, not exactly—not yet. But there’s something in the way you’re looking at her now. A spark. An open door. Well, shit.

Paige doesn’t know where this is going, but suddenly she doesn’t care how tired she is or how long this week has been—because you’re standing in front of her in that damn dress, and you know her name, and your smile is enough to knock her off balance in the best possible way.

But, the thing about nights like this is that they never really slow down.

One minute, Paige is thinking she might actually be getting somewhere—that you might actually be into talking to her—and the next, someone who looks vaguely famous (blonde, sequined, expensive) is whisking you and Timothée away with a cheerful, “Come on, you have to meet—!”

You shoot Paige an apologetic little smile as you’re tugged off, mouthing something like sorry!, and then you’re gone. Just like that. The crush of bodies swallows you whole.

And Paige… is left standing there, still gripping her champagne glass like it might offer answers.

Azzi bumps her shoulder. “Paige,” she laughs.

“I’m calm,” Paige lies through her teeth, staring at the spot you were just standing in.

“Uh-huh,” Azzi nods, looking entirely unconvinced, biting her lip to fight another laugh from escaping.

Kaitlyn grins, too. “What’re you thinking?”

“I’m thinkin’,” Paige mutters, taking another sip, “that I shoulda said more.”

Azzi snorts. “Nah, you said enough. She was into it.”

Paige gives her a side-eye. “You think?”

“She smiled at you like this.” Azzi does a dramatic, slow-motion head tilt, batting her lashes.

“Stop.” Paige shoves her.

But… yeah, maybe she’s hoping her best friend is a little right about this one thing.

IT’S ALMOST AN HOUR before she sees you again.

In the meantime, she’s made rounds with Azzi and Kaitlyn, posed for some photos, took another flute of champagne, and then promptly lost track of them somewhere around a table filled with sliders and very fancy-looking truffle fries.

She heads to the bathroom just to get a breather, leaning against the marble counter and staring at herself in the mirror for a beat too long.

You’re fine, she tells herself. You’re not twelve. She’s just hot. And famous. And you’re…

She frowns. “Also hot. And famous,” she says out loud, trying to hype herself up. It doesn’t work. She’s never really cared about either of those things.

And, of course, the mirror—as expected—doesn’t respond.

She leaves the bathroom and steps back into the party, only to find that Azzi and Kaitlyn have fully vanished. Not just moved—vanished. Gone without a trace. It’s not that big of a room, but the lights are low, and the music is louder now, and she’s weaving through the crowd like she’s suddenly in a dream sequence.

Then—

“Your teammates ditch you?”

The voice comes from behind, low and familiar, and Paige freezes before she turns.

You.

You’re standing there holding an empty glass, still looking so fucking fine in that damn dress, your weight shifted to one hip and an amused tilt to your head like you might already know the effect you’re having on her.

Paige blinks once. “Uh…”

You stare.

She clears her throat, pulling herself together. “Yeah. Seems like they did.”

You nod, tapping the side of your glass. “It’s okay. I was ditched too.”

She laughs softly, eyes flicking down to the floor and then back to you. “Timothée ditched you?” She doesn’t add the fact that she thinks anyone ditching you might as well be a crime.

You shrug, scrunching your nose just slightly. “Yeah. He and Kylie left. They’re always escaping to go be nasty together.”

And Paige—

Paige blinks, because the first thought that enters her brain is: you and I can go be nasty together.

And the second thought is: Jesus Christ. What is wrong with me.

She manages to keep a straight face, nodding with a mix of mock solemnity and disgust. “Gross.”

“Very,” you agree, leaning a little closer. “But I guess that makes us the abandoned ones. Left to fend for ourselves in this sea of glitter and Botox.”

Paige chuckles. “Could be worse.”

You smile at her, a dimple popping out of your cheek. “Could definitely be worse.”

There’s a beat. A pause, but not an awkward one. The music swells in the background—some mellow pop remix of a song Paige doesn’t recognize—and your eyes haven’t left hers.

But then they do, glancing at her empty glass. “Out of champagne?”

She looks down like she didn’t realize it. “Apparently.”

You hold up yours, empty too. “Same. Let’s fix that?”

Paige nods, heart ticking up a notch. “Let’s.”

You both drift to the bar again, standing shoulder to shoulder while the bartender takes someone else’s overly complicated drink order. You lean in a little as you wait, not quite touching but close enough that Paige can smell the citrusy perfume on your neck.

“Sooo…” you say, dragging the word out, looking at her sideways and smirking a little. “You’re gon’ be the number one pick next week, yeah?”

Paige feels her face flush a little, blood rushing through her cheeks. The draft. Another thing that’s coming head-on. She’s excited. Grateful, of course. Just… also still a little overwhelmed. It’s okay; she’ll be ready come Monday.

She swallows, shrugging a little. “If that’s in God’s plan for me, then I guess so.”

Your eyes seem to soften a bit at that but before you can respond, the bartender finally turns to you both. Paige puts on her normal smile, ordering two more glasses and sliding her card across the counter before you can even reach for your handbag.

You arch a brow. “Really?”

“Mhm,” she hums, not elaborating. She leans against the bar, looks at you. She hopes she seems smoother than she feels.

Your lips twist into something almost flirtatious. “Fine. But only if I get to buy the next round.”

“You planning on stayin’ that long?”

You tilt your head, gaze sharp and playful. “I don’t know. You planning on making it worth my while?”

And there it is—Paige feels it hit her chest, the full-body flush of oh my God, this is happening.

She plays it cool. Leans in just a little. “I might.”

You hold her gaze for a moment. The drinks arrive. You both take a sip, and something simmers in the space between you.

“Okay then,” you say softly. “Show me what you’ve got, PB.”

THE DRINKS GO DOWN easily. Too easily, maybe.

Because—one minute, Paige is flirting with you at the bar, and the next, you’re both in the family restroom.

It’s a nice bathroom. Like, really nice. Too nice for what’s about to happen in it.

There’s a changing table, a comfy little chair in the corner, even a soft-glow light coming from behind the mirror. It smells like eucalyptus.

Paige watches as you push the lock in with a soft click. You move then, stepping right into her space.

She doesn’t hesitate. Doesn’t even think.

Her mouth is on yours before either of you says a word.

It’s hot. Messy in the way champagne makes everything feel a little blurred and desperate. Paige’s hands find your waist, pulling you closer and pushing you until your back hits the edge of the sink. You’re kissing her like you’ve been waiting all night to, and Paige is still trying to keep her cool but—God, the way you taste, the way you’re tugging at the open collar of her flannel—it’s a lot.

Paige slips her tongue into your mouth, licking around, tasting. You make a low sound when she sucks lightly on your bottom lip and Paige feels it everywhere.

“Fuck,” you mumble and Paige manages to laugh a little, low and breathless, before tilting your chin up to kiss you deeper.

Paige’s head spins a little.

How did she even get here?

She’s in a family restroom. At a celebrity afterparty. With you. Famous, perfect, actress you, whose Instagram she’s stalked more times than she’ll ever admit. And now you’re as close as possible, your tongue tangled with hers.

This can’t even be real.

And yet—your mouth moves to her jaw, kissing along it in slow, maddening lines, and Paige grips the edge of the sink behind you because if she doesn’t hold onto something, she might just melt into the floor.

You murmur into her neck, “You good?”

She laughs quietly, shakes her head a little. “Yeah,” she mumbles, a little breathless. She reaches for your face again, adding, “C’mere,” pulling you back in.

She kisses you, harder this time, a little reckless. You taste like champagne and mistakes and her own disbelief. And strawberry lip gloss. The same strawberry lip gloss that she’s essentially sucked off.

Your fingers slip beneath the hem of her flannel, lightly tracing the skin above her waistband, and it makes her hips twitch forward before she can stop it. You feel it. Smirk into the kiss.

“Easy, Bueckers,” you tease, lips brushing hers.

Paige swears something explodes behind her ribs. Like a firework. Or a panic attack. Or both.

She groans, kissing you again—if she doesn’t keep doing it, she might lose her mind. Her hands move back to your waist, grabbing you, your dress wrinkling slightly beneath the grip of her palms. You kiss her deeper, mouth open and needy, teeth grazing the blonde’s lip.

Paige’s hands slide lower, palms skimming down the curve of your back, fingers trailing over the fabric of your dress until they land—firmly, confidently—on your ass. She gives a slow squeeze, exhaling lowly at the feeling. You make a soft sound, too, and it nearly sends her spiraling.

Paige feels you press closer to her, your leg nudging between hers slightly. Her pulse picks up like she’s got two seconds left on the shot clock and the ball’s in her hands.

Her hands palm at you again, trying to memorize the shape of you. At the feeling, you pull back just enough to speak, lips kiss-swollen and spit-slick, eyes a little glossy.

“D’you wanna leave?” you ask, voice low and slightly breathless.

Paige’s mouth instinctively moves to your jaw, kissing there, slow and a little greedy. She hums against your skin. “Where would we go?”

You tip your head back slightly, exposing your neck to her in a way that drives her insane. “Back to mine?”

And—fuck.

That snaps something within Paige.

She stills for a half-second. Not pulling away. Just taking a moment. Letting that sentence sit in the air between you two.

Back to yours.

You. Your apartment. You, a little tipsy and flushed and stunning and clearly just as into this as she is.

How in the hell?

This doesn’t happen to her. Sure, she’s fucked a good amount of girls on campus. Sure, she’s got a lot of fans that edit her. But this? You? The girl with the Oscar buzz and the actual fame and that little black dress that’s been driving her out of her mind all night?

All she can think is—thank God for that natty.

She kisses you again, deep and hungry and like that answers the question for her.

You smile into it, pulling back just slightly, lips grazing hers as you ask, “Yeah?”

And Paige—grinning now, breath uneven, hands still resting on your ass, fingers skimming the back of your thighs because your dress is so short—says against your mouth, “Oh, yeah.”

You laugh, and it’s giddy and bright and sounds like bells. Paige wants to hear it again.

But then you’re both moving. You smooth your dress, pulling it down a little, fixing your lipgloss in the mirror with a lazy swipe of your finger. Paige straightens her flannel and tightens her ponytail, trying not to look like she was just seconds away from doing something very vile in a public restroom.

You unlock the door. Step out first.

Paige follows, hand brushing the small of your back before she shoves it in her pocket, like if she doesn’t, she’ll touch you again in front of everyone.

You both re-enter the noise and chaos of the party like nothing happened. Paige sends a quick text to Azzi and Kaitlyn—wherever they are—telling them of where she’s going.

You catch her eye over your shoulder as you lead the way toward the exit. And Paige just follows—completely, hopelessly, happily gone.

YOU TAKE THE SUBWAY.

You could’ve called a car—should’ve, probably—but it just feels easier like this. It’s late, the platform is as quiet as it is all day, and there’s something a little funny about a famous actress and a famous basketball player going home on the subway following a celebrity afterparty. You half expect her to complain or hesitate, but she doesn’t. She stays right beside you the whole time. Close, like she needs to feel the heat from your skin.

You feel the same. It’s almost like your skin might catch fire if she gets any nearer.

You don’t talk much, just a few soft jokes between stations. Stuff like:

“Are the subways usually this dirty?”

“Paige.”

And:

“People are staring.”

“Yeah. At you.”

“Mm. Doubt it.”

“You’re holding the pole like it owes you money, Bueckers. You’re not exactly blending in.”

(Clearly, Paige is not a New Yorker.)

She laughs at that, quietly, and you watch her from the corner of your eye.

You didn’t plan this. At all.

When the girl doing your makeup mentioned Paige Bueckers would be popping into the Tonight Show monologue, you’d barely reacted. Just filled it away. You knew who she was, of course—who doesn’t, at this point? You’re not deep into basketball, more of a casual watcher, but she’s impossible to ignore. A little golden, a little unreal.

You definitely didn’t expect to be on your way home with her a few hours later.

But then Timmy geeked out. Saw her at the bar, dragged you to meet her. Said her name with this over-the-top awe as if he isn’t ten times more famous than her. You’d just laughed and let him, not thinking too much about it—until you got close.

And then, yeah, you understood.

She’s hot.

Like, obviously. She’s tall, strong, stupidly pretty in a way that seems both entirely effortless and at the same time a little intentional. Her posture alone—the confidence in her stature—made you straighten up, and you put on your best perfectly casual acting face for moments when you don’t feel quite as casual as you should.

But it wasn’t just her appearance.

She’s kind. That was clear right away. Not performative or trying too hard. Just nice. And funny, in a dry way. Quick with the side comments. Self-aware. And slightly, slightly nervous around you, which you can’t lie—you like. It’s endearing.

There’s this quiet little tension between you now. A hum under the surface. Every time your knees brush on the subway bench, you feel it spike. She keeps glancing at your legs like she’s trying not to, like she doesn’t realize you’ve already caught her twice.

You don’t say anything. You just sit there and let it build.

The ride doesn’t last long. Your stop comes faster than expected, and Paige follows you off the train without a word.

It’s chilly outside. The city’s quieter than usual, but not silent. It never is. You walk a block to your building, Paige’s steps in rhythm with yours, and when you glance over at her under the streetlight, she looks down and gives you a half-smile. It makes your chest tighten a little. Like something you didn’t know was there is trying to make itself known.

Inside your building, you greet the doorman, who gives you a knowing look that you ignore. Paige nods politely. She’s got that people-pleaser charm—you can tell.

The elevator is slow. Old. You both step in and the doors close with a soft thunk.

You hit the button for your floor. Then, the air shifts.

There’s a pause—quiet but heavy. The kind of silence that makes you feel the other person. Paige stands just a little too close. Not aggressively. Just… aware. The distance between you isn’t quite respectful. Her arm brushes yours, and neither of you move away.

You stare straight ahead, but your eyes flick sideways every few seconds. She’s doing the same. You can feel it. Like heat. Like static. The air between your bodies buzzes like it’s waiting for permission to break.

The elevator dings.

Your floor.

You step out. She follows. And this time, she’s close enough that you feel the warmth of her breath as she exhales.

You swallow and walk to your door, unlocking it quickly, gingers a little clumsy on the key. Your heartbeat’s in your ears now. Loud.

The door swings open, and you step aside to let her in.

Paige walks in slow. She glances around, taking in the space—it’s nice. You know it is. Acting—well, it makes good money. And your apartment is a reflection of that.

You let her look around, setting your keys down and toeing your shoes off. When you glance back up, she’s watching you.

Neither of you says anything.

You walk over to her slowly.

And Paige—still looking at you like she’s not quite sure how this is real—just stands there, letting you close the space between you.

Your fingers find the hem of her flannel, gently.

“You wanna stay a while?” you ask, voice quiet, casual.

She nods.

And this time, it’s her who kisses you.

Its immediate. The fire. The heat. The way her mouth meets yours like it’s something she’s been dying to do all night—maybe longer. Her lips are warm, soft but urgent, and you can barely keep up with the way she kisses you, like she’s been holding herself back and now there’s no reason to anymore.

You make a sound against her mouth, half gasp, half laugh, and she responds with a low hum, hands already gripping your hips like they’re the only thing keeping her tethered to the Earth.

Your fingers slide up to her shoulders, trying to steer, to hold, to anchor—but you’re barely steady yourself. The two of you stumble back a few steps, laughing breathlessly between kisses as she walks you toward the couch, bumping a wall, into the table, not even caring. Her hand is on your lower back, guiding you—no, pushing you—and you let her, let her press you into her, let her kiss you like she knows exactly what she wants and exactly where she wants it.

It’s messy. Hands moving with no direction, your bodies pressing into each other like you’ve already forgotten you’re in your own damn apartment. Her mouth moves from your lips to your neck for half a second and you feel your knees weaken a little. You bite your lip, grab her jaw, kiss her harder. It’s so much, too much—but not enough.

You gasp against her mouth, “Wait—bed,” and she pulls back, just a breath away, eyes wide and dark and already a little wild.

“Yeah,” she says, already reaching for your hand, letting you pull her because she’s not familiar with the space.

You thought maybe you’d end up… here. The couch. The floor. Whatever. But no—you make it to the bedroom, somehow. Still kissing, still giggling in these little gasps when you bump into furniture. Still fumbling. Still grabbing.

Once you’re there, you push her down onto the bed, your palms flat on her chest. She goes easily, grinning up at you as her back hits the mattress. She’s breathing hard. So are you.

You crawl into her lap, settling your thighs on either side of hers, letting her hands immediately go to your waist again—strong, sure now. Her fingers grip you tighter than before. She’s steadier. More confident. And it’s really fucking attractive.

You bend down and kiss her again, slower this time but just as deep, just as desperate. Her hands slide up your back, over your spine, under the hem of your dress, wandering. You don’t stop her. You don’t want to.

And God, the way she moves underneath you. The way she kisses you now—like she’s not nervous anymore. Like she’s got you, and she knows it.

Your lips trace down, slow and hungry, grazing her skin like you want to memorize every part of her. Her jaw. The curve of her throat. The warm spot just beneath her ear. You suck lightly at first, then a little harder when you feel her shift beneath you—when her grip tightens and her breath gets heavier.

She mutters something low and strained, a quiet “Christ,” that sends a pulse right through you.

Her hands slide under your tiny dress. You feel her fingers splay across the back of your thighs before moving your, gripping your ass in a way that’s both firm and reverent. Like she’s still shocked you’re even here, straddling her, touching her. You groan softly against her neck, sinking your teeth gently into her skin there before pulling back with a kiss.

Your focus shifts to her flannel. The sparkly thing that you think probably only she can pull off. You eye it, fingers fumbling a bit as you reach for the buttons. She doesn’t move to help you at first. Just keeps her hands right where they are, thumbs brushing slow, distracting circles as she watches you with this little smirk.

You finally get the last button undone and she shrugs it off, tossing it across the room. She’s left in a black Nike sports bra and cargos and somehow still looks like maybe the hottest person you’ve ever seen in your life—and, seriously, you’ve seen a lot of hot people.

Your hands run up her bare abs, firm beneath your palms, before she pulls you back down like she can’t go another second without your mouth on hers.

This kiss isn’t sweet or exploratory. It’s flat-out hungry. Like now she’s got permission to take her time and take her fill. Her hands are back on you again, sliding lower, gripping tighter, pulling you down into her until your whole body is flush with hers. You can feel the heat of her skin through the fabric between you, the tension that’s been simmering since the moment your eyes met hours ago now boiling over.

You grind into her without even thinking, and the way her breath stutters against your mouth makes your whole body buzz.

You chuckle, soft and breathless, pulling back just enough to look at her. Her lips are kiss-bitten, cheeks flushed, pupils blown wide.

“Okay?” you whisper.

“Mm,” she hums before pulling you back into her quickly like she was offended you pulled away at all in the first place.

You respond immediately, tongue sliding against hers, teeth clashing. Her hands are everywhere. Your hips roll against hers instinctively, your breath catching every time her fingers dig into your skin or slide along your thighs. It’s hot and heavy and dizzying in the best way.

At some point, she pulls back just slightly, lips parted, gaze hungry. She looks down at the way your dress rides yo as you move against her and then back up at you like she’s barely holding it together.

“Can I take it off?” she asks, voice low, almost hoarse. Her hands pull at the fabric a little. “Needa see you.”

There’s this desperate kind of honesty in the way she says it that shoots straight through you. You not without even thinking, already helping her—grabbing at the hem of the dress, pulling it over your head, tossing it blindly across the room.

It lands somewhere near the door. Neither of you cares.

Now, you’re in nothing but your lacy black thong (thank God you decided to wear a sexy pair of underwear today, seriously), straddling her, skin flushed and warm and bare to her, and when Paige looks at you—really looks at you—she groans under her breath. Head falls back for a second like she needs to reset, eyes fluttering before they lock onto you again, darker than before, icy blue mixing with the black of her enlarged pupils.

“Shit,” she mutters, hands sliding up the backs of your thighs to your waist, then higher. “You’re—”

She doesn’t finish the sentence. Doesn’t have to.

She pulls you down to her again, but this time her mouth doesn’t go to your lips. Instead, she kisses across your chest, slow at first, open-mouthed and warm. Her rough palms hold you firm against her, fingers splaying along the swell of your ass as her lips move down. And then her mouth closes around one of your nipples, sucking—lightly at first, just enough to make you twitch in surprise—and then again, a little harder, her breath hot where it fans out.

You exhale shakily, fingers fumbling with her hair tie before undoing it, letting her ponytail fall loose. She looks up at you for just a second, grinning like she knows exactly what she’s doing to you.

And she keeps kissing across your chest and tits, mouth open and warm and purposeful. Her lips drag over the swell of you, her tongue flicking occasionally at your nipples like she’s trying to memorize the way you taste, the way you react. And you do react—your back arches, your hands tighten in her hair, and your hips roll forward against her without even thinking about it.

She hums in response, low and satisfied. The sound vibrates against your skin. Her fingers tighten at your waist, holding you in place, guiding your rhythm.

“Fuck,” she murmurs against you. “Don’t stop doin’ that.”

You don’t.

You move against her with a little more purpose, the friction sending a slow burn through your body. Her hands are hot and strong where they grip you, and her mouth doesn’t let up. She kisses over the curve of one of your tits, up to your collarbone, then back down, her breath shaky now too. She’s unraveling under you, even if she’s trying not to show it.

But you’re unraveling, too. Fast.

You let her mouth linger a little longer, let yourself feel every second of it—and then you’re tugging away from her, chest rising and falling a little too fast. Her eyes flick open, meeting yours, a silent question in them.

“I need…” you trail off, already reaching down.

She gets it. She shifts under you, lifting her hips as you start pulling at her cargo pants. She helps, fumbling a little in the rush to get them off, and her boxers come with—unintentional, but neither of you is complaining.

Paige leans up, kissing you again—a little slower now, a little more sensual. Tongues sliding and tangling languidly. There’s a kind of reverence in it now, like she’s savoring. You’re straddling her still, one knee braced beside her bare thigh, your chest still flushed and wet from her mouth, your breathing uneven. Her hands are at your hips, fingers flexing like she can’t decide whether to hold on tighter or let herself get lost in the feel of you completely.

Her fingers drift along, ghosting along the hem of your thong. She pauses, just barely.

“Can I?” she asks lowly. It’s respectful; you like that.

You nod, already leaning in. “Yeah,” you say softly. “Yeah, Paige.”

She kisses you once more—quick, urgent—before sliding her hands down, easing your underwear over your hips, your thighs. You lift just enough to help her, and she works them off completely, tossing them to join the growing pile of clothes somewhere on the floor.

And then she pulls you down again. Fully. Flush against her.

You gasp quietly at the contact, your bare cunt pressed to hers, the heat and slick between you unmistakable now.

Paige groans quietly, head dropping to your shoulder, arms wrapping tight around your waist as she holds you to her. Her hands splay wide across your lower back, like she needs to ground herself in the feeling of you there. Her lips brush against the curve of your neck, and you feel her smile just barely.

“Fuck, ma, you’re killin’ me here,” she mumbles into your skin.

You laugh, breathless. “Pretty sure you started it.”

Her hand drifts lower, palming your ass, her mouth now back on your jaw. “And I’mma finish it.”

Her words send a jolt through your stomach. And then she’s shifting beneath you, hips twitching up against yours, your slick clits bumping. Her palms guide you, moving you against her with slow, grinding pressure.

It’s instinct more than choreography. Your bodies find the rhythm together, messy and hot and overwhelming.

You let out a sound—something caught between a sigh and a moan—and she tightens her grip like she’s trying to draw more out of you. Her eyes are glazed over, locked on yours, and there’s a kind of quiet desperation in them that makes you grind down against her harder.

“Fuck, that—” you gasp a little as she shifts her angle, her pussy hitting yours just right. “Right there, Paige—”

She groans, pulling you down so your forehead is resting against hers, your lips brushing. You can feel her breath against your mouth, fast and shallow. You can hear the slick, vile sounds of your wetness against hers filling the room.

“Keep going,” she mumbles. “You feel so good, just—don’t stop.”

You nod, can’t even form a real answer, just roll your hips against her again, and again, chasing the way her body feels under yours, the way her mouth keeps finding your throat, your jaw, your shoulder. Her skin is slick with sweat, her hair dampening, sticking to her forehead.

You’re both panting heavily now, bodies moving in sync, heat building between you like it’s alive. The room spins a little around the edges, your heart pounding so loud it feels like the only thing you can hear besides Paige’s voice, the occasional moan, and the rustle of sheets.

She grips your waist and rocks up into you, and the pressure makes your vision blur.

“Shit,” you breathe.

Paige laughs under her breath, low and ragged. “Mm. I—I know.”

Everything begins to sharpen around you and you lean in, kissing Paige as hard as you can—teeth clashing, mouths open and desperate. Every roll of your hips, every sound that escapes either of your lips, every gasp and half-muttered name. Her hands hold you so tight you think she might leave bruises—you don’t care. Your cunts are warm and wet and swollen, sliding messily enough to get each other’s arousal on both of your thighs.

It builds fast. Hot and tight in your chest, in your stomach, in the way you’re grinding against her now—faster, harder, needing more, needing her. She’s right there with you, her mouth pressed to the side of your neck, her voice rough and muffled against your skin.

“God, you’re—” she chokes out, breath stuttering. “You feel—shit, I’mma—”

“Paige,” you mewl.

She nods, biting at your throat a little.

That’s all it takes.

Everything inside you snaps. White heat floods your senses and you fall into it, trembling and moaning against the blonde, your whole body shuddering as you come, pressed tight against her. Paige follows right after, hips stuttering, arms wrapped tight around your waist as she falls apart with you.

You collapse against her—completely boneless, your cheek pressed to the curve of her shoulder. Paige’s arms stay around you, her chest rising and falling in sharp bursts against yours, skin slick with sweat.

For a moment, neither of you says anything. You just breathe. Skin damp, thighs sticky. Hair in your face. Her heartbeat thudding loud under your ear.

Then she rolls, gently shifting you onto your back and settling between your legs again. Her body rests over yours, her nose nudging your jaw before she starts trailing wet kisses along your neck and shoulder.

You hum at the feeling, the pads of your fingers trailing down the side of her arm. “Feels good,” you murmur lazily, eyes half shut.

Paige chuckles against your skin, lips brushing just beneath your jaw. “Yeah?”

You nod slowly, watching as she lifts her head just enough to smirk at you, her eyes heavy-lidded and bright. Then, without breaking eye contact, her hand moves lower—slow, easy. You don’t even realize where it’s going until you feel it between your thighs, her fingers sliding between your slick folds, pressing lightly against your sensitive clit, confident and sure.

Your breath catches.

Paige leans up, her mouth just by your ear. “Can you gimme another?”

You blink at the ceiling for a second, trying to form a coherent thought. She was nervous before, you could tell, and now she’s so damn sure. You turn your head to see her. Her expression is intense—she looks almost like she would devour you if she could. Her fingers stay resting on your clit, unmoving with the slightest bit of pressure. The touch alone makes your skin feel like it’s buzzing.

You swallow. “Mhm. Yeah,” you stumble out.

Paige’s mouth curls into a grin, something between cocky and sweet. “Good girl.”

And then her fingers finally move. She circles your clit—once, twice, three times. Your thighs twitch some, still sensitive from before. Paige reaches down after that, sliding her middle finger inside you. She gives you a moment to adjust before adding a second digit in.

You try to keep it together—you really do—but the way her fingers move in and out, slow and certain, curling just when you need her to… she knows exactly what she’s doing. Her blue eyes flick between where her fingers thrust inside you, covered in your slick, and your face. Her lips are parted, chest rising and falling with the same shallow rhythm as yours. It’s hot in here. You’re sweating. You’re both still breathless, still recovering and already going again.

Your hand tightens your grip on Paige’s bicep as she moves her fingers just a little deeper, her wrist flexing with intention. Your hips twitch up in response, and you catch her smirk as she glances up at you—flushed cheeks, messy blonde hair, a cocky look in her eyes that should be illegal.

“Oh, my God,” you mumble, breath hitching.

She grins, biting her lip as her gaze stays locked on the way your cunt swallows her digits. It’s seems to do something to her because then—quietly, mostly to herself—she murmurs, “Fuck, I gotta taste you.”

You think your breath may stop entirely.

She shifts downward, pressing kisses across your stomach as she goes—soft, almost worshipping. Her fingers never stop moving, scissoring inside you, making it even harder for your lungs to function, and her mouth follows the trail of heat between your thighs.

Her tongue flicks out, swiping between your folds. You shudder at the feeling. Simultaneously, her fingers keep working you open, skilled, like she’s mapping out every reaction she gets. The combination of both is almost too much. You can’t help it—you grip at her hair, threading your fingers through the soft strands and tugging when she does something particularly good—which is often.

And she notices. Of course she does.

Paige hums against you, just enough vibration to make your thighs tremble. Then she glances up at you—barely, eyes hooded, teasing. “Don’t tap out on me yet, ma.”

Your eyes roll back at the nickname and the feeling of her fingers hitting that spongy spot inside you. You let out a breath that’s half a laugh, half a moan. “I—I’m not,” you say, trying to convince both her and yourself.

Her grin flashes, all pride and playfulness, before she dives back in—lips slick, tongue slow and focused. Her mouth wraps around your clit and sucks deliberately while her fingers curl inside you just right. You feel yourself fall deeper into it, into her, one hand pressing to the back of Paige’s head like you don’t want her to go anywhere.

You don’t. You really, really don’t.

She speeds up just a little, coaxing another sound from you, and your hips lift off the bed involuntarily. “God, I—”

That earns you another smirk against your skin, and she doesn’t stop. She’s locked in—and she’s not letting up until she gets everything she wants.

So, she keeps going.

Even when your hips stutter and your lungs stumble. Even when your hands slip from her hair to the pillow, fingers flexing and grasping at anything to hold you down. Even when you whimper something that barely sounds like her name.

Paige doesn’t stop.

Her mouth is certain, her tongue sliding through your folds, up and down across your clit. You feel like you’re melting into the mattress, boneless, trembling, completely at her mercy. Her fingers never lose rhythm, continuing their thrusts, and you vaguely wonder if her hand is cramping yet.

At one point, you hear her murmur something against your cunt, too muffled to catch.

“What?” you gasp, barely managing the word.

She lifts her head slightly, lips shining, and says, “Said you taste really fuckin’ good. Can’t get enough of you.”

And then her mouth is right back on you, her head shaking back and forth as her tongue follows the movement across your swollen clit. You make a sound that isn’t even close to human. It’s almost too much. The way she licks into you with purpose, the way her hand holds your thigh down like you might actually float away, the way her fingers keep coaxing more out of you like it’s her only mission.

“You’re—Paige, fuck, you’re…” You can’t even finish the thought. Can’t form words. Cant think straight. And she loves it. You can tell in the way she groans lowly into you, like you’re the best meal she’s ever had, like she’s the one getting off.

It’s so good. It’s too good.

Her fingers start pumping harder and faster, a white ring forming around them. Paige is unrelenting; she can probably tell that the coil deep in your belly is preparing to snap. She wraps her lips around your bud again, sucking and sucking and sucking.

“Paige—” you gasp, voice breaking. “I—shit—I can’t—”

“Yes, you can,” she murmurs, low and husky against you. “C’mon, mama, I gotchu.”

She thrusts again. She lays her tongue flat, shaking it.

That does it.

Everything tightens, your whole body curling in on itself for one suspended second—before it all shatters. You cry out, hips stuttering, thighs shaking as the orgasm rips through you like a wave, overwhelming and all-consuming. You can’t even think. All you can do is feel. Her. Her mouth. Her fingers. Her voice.

She works you through it, gentle now, easing you down. Only when you’re twitching and completely spent does she finally pull away.

You’re panting. Drenched in sweat. Barely coherent.

And Paige looks… completely wrecked in the best way. Her lips are swollen and pink, her cheeks bright red, her fingers slick. She licks them slowly, not breaking eye contact, cleaning the cum off.

“Good Lord—taste unreal,” she mutters, voice rough. Then, she leans down, kissing the inside of your thigh before crawling back up your body, lazy and satisfied.

When she finally teaches your face, she’s grinning. She kisses you softly, almost sweetly now, brushing her nose against yours as she whispers, “Told you I needed that.”

You shake your head, smiling a little in disbelief, letting her peck your lips one more time before laying on you. Paige is warm and a little damp with sweat, her breathing now steady. You run your fingers lazily along the slope of her shoulder, and she hums a little at the touch, face buried in the crook of your neck, inhaling your scent.

For a while, it’s silent. You’re not sure if it’s too late or too early, only that the city outside your window sounds far away.

Paige traces circles on your side with thumb. Slow, soft. Barely there.

“Hey,” you say eventually, voice a little raspy.

“Mmm?”

You glance down, and she shifts just enough to look at you. Her eyes have gone a little sleepy—she looks pretty like this. You think she probably looks pretty all the time, though.

“So, like… Dallas, right?” you ask hesitantly, bringing up the WNBA draft on Monday.

She pauses, and you feel her thumb stop its movement. “I mean, yeah,” she says eventually, her voice quiet, almost careful. It’s not set in stone—but everyone knows. She’s going to Texas.

You nod, stare at the ceiling for a second. You’re not sure if you should say what you’re thinking. You just met her tonight. But… fuck, she was good. And she’s hot. And she’s nice. And she’s funny. And—what’s the harm? “I’m filming a movie there all summer.”

There’s a beat of silence. And then you glance down at her and you watch as she stares at you for a long moment before her lips begin to curl up in the softest, most dangerous smile.

And, oh yeah—you already know. You’re both so screwed.

#paige bueckers #uconn wbb #paige bueckers fic #uconn huskies #wbb #wcbb #dallas wings #wnba #paige bueckers smut #paige bueckers fluff #paige bueckers x reader #paige bueckers x oc #wlw

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hauntedhowlett-writes · 9 months ago

Text

ROOM FOR RENT

PAIRING: logan howlett x female reader

RATING: explicit (18+) | WORD COUNT: 5.3k

SUMMARY: logan finds a new roommate.

AUTHOR’S NOTE: i have logan howlett brain rot and i’m not sorry. big smooch to everyone who let me yell about this to them including @eupheme @pedgito @wannab-urs @chaotic-mystery @kedsandtubesocks @undrthelights and @murder-wife 💕

WARNINGS: post deadpool & wolverine, variant!logan howlett, able bodied reader, reader being picked up (enhanced strength babyyyy), roommates to lovers trope, meddlesome pet cat, a splash of canon typical violence - mentions of blood and knife wounds, wade wilson/deadpool appearances, mild angst, explicit sexual content (18+ minors do not interact) - dirty talk, pain kink, biting, pet names, praise kink, oral sex - m & f receiving, a little dacryphilia during a blowjob, multiple orgasms, unprotected p in v, begging, size kink. if i’ve missed any, please let me know!

LINKS: masterlists | support for palestine

If Logan has to wake up to Wade's constant yapping for the rest of his life, he's going to go insane. Every morning he's jolted awake by Wade singing in the kitchen. When he notices Logan is awake, the singing stops and the one-sided conversation begins and doesn't end until Logan finally gets up from the couch and leaves the apartment with nothing but the clothes on his back.

Today, with some money in his pocket from a few odd jobs he's picked up, he finds solace in a quiet coffee shop. Sat beside a bulletin board, he scans the postings.

Art show, art show, yard sale, job opening, roommate wanted, art show--

Roommate wanted? Logan tears the paper from the pin.

Room for rent in 2 bedroom/1 bathroom apartment. One cat. Laundry on site.

He folds the ad up and stuffs the paper in the pocket of his jacket before gathering his empty coffee cup and tossing it in the trash on the way out the door, an uncharacteristic spring in his step.

Your phone rings with a number you don't recognize. You consider sending it to voicemail, already exhausted from fielding similar calls about your room for rent, but ultimately decide to answer.

"Hello?"

A man clears his throat on the other end of the line before responding with, "This the number for the rental?"

"Yep," you reply. "Were you interested in seeing it or have any questions?"

"How much is it?"

"Your half would be $950.”

"And it's a whole bedroom?"

"As opposed to a half bedroom?" You laugh at your joke but the man remains quiet and you wince. "I mean, yes. It's a whole bedroom."

"I'd like to come see it, if you've got the time."

"Sure, how's this Friday sound?" You suggest. "What's your full name?"

"Why do you need to know that?" The man's tone grows defensive and alarm bells ring in your head.

"Well, I'd like to make sure you're not, like, a wanted criminal or something," you tell him with an awkward laugh. He's quiet and for a moment you think that he may have hung up on you. "Hello?"

"Yeah, 'm still here," he sighs. "Name's Logan Howlett."

"Logan Howlett," you repeat. You give him your name in return, though he doesn't do much but grunt in acknowledgment. "Alright, well, do you have something to write down the address?"

"Just tell me, I'll remember."

After listing off the address, he ends the call with a rough goodbye. You get to work on your personal research, entering his name into a search engine.

No results.

You refresh the page, thinking that must be an error, but the same message appears.

No results.

You try spelling his name differently.

No results.

You set the phone down, anxiety starting to creep up your spine. It's hard to believe that there's absolutely nothing online about this man, who now has your full address, name, and phone number.

A sharp meow shakes you from your thoughts and you find that your cat has taken up residence on your lap, staring at you intently as his tail flicks back and forth. You run your hand over his head, scratching beneath his chin.

"You'll protect me, right?" You ask.

He leaps from your lap and struts away, fluffy tail disappearing down the hall that leads to your bedroom. You sigh.

Hopefully you haven’t just done something stupid.

Logan's attempt to leave the apartment unnoticed does not go as planned. Althea is sitting on the couch, a re-run of a talk show playing loudly, when he tries to make a run for it. He's distracted, watching her too carefully that he doesn't realize Wade has just returned from god-knows-where.

"Whatcha doin', twinkle toes?" Wade asks, startling Logan, who slams into the kitchen table with a curse.

"Fucking hell," Logan curses, rubbing his hip. "When did you get in here?"

Wade shrugs. "Sometime around the start of your 007 impression."

"My what?"

"Nevermind," Wade sighs. "You look snazzy. Got a hot date?"

"No," Logan grunts.

"A cold date, then?"

Logan pinches his nose. "No."

"Well, care to share, sugar plum? What's got you sneaking around like the Black Widow?"

"The who?"

"May she rest in peace," Wade says, tone suddenly somber.

"He's tryin' to move out," Althea chimes in. Wade's mouth drops open in shock.

"You're abandoning us?!" he exclaims. "After all we've been through?"

"Let the man do what he wants," Althea says. "Damn co-dependent freak."

"Harsh," - Wade places a hand over his chest, -"you know I have daddy issues. And mommy issues. And abandonment issues. And--"

"Enough," Logan snaps. "Yes, alright? I'm looking for a new place. I can't sleep on that couch forever."

"Is it because it smells like old people?" Wade whispers, pointing an accusatory finger to Althea, who flips him off.

"Look, this is your universe. Your timeline. Mine is gone and it's time I start making this whole thing less temporary."

Wade tilts his head and places a hand on Logan's shoulder. "My little Wolvie, all grown up," he says, wiping at a fake tear. Logan shoves his hand away, storming past him for the door.

"Remember to smile! Give 'em the ol' razzle dazzle!" Wade shouts as he slams the door behind him.

You pace your small living room and check the stove clock for the hundredth time in the past five minutes. Logan is due to see the apartment and your nerves have gone from a simmer to a full blown boil waiting for the mysterious man with no digital footprint to show up. Your cat is lounging on the windowsill, blissfully unaware of your inner panic.

Three sharp knocks at the door cause your pulse to skyrocket. You take a deep breath before crossing the short distance to the door, pulling it open with a smile.

"Hi! You must be--“

Your greeting dies on your tongue as you take in the man crowding your hallway. He's wearing a leather jacket over a white tank top that stretches tightly across a broad chest and jeans that highlight thick thighs. His dark hair is cut shorter on the sides than on the top of his head, the ends fanning out in a manner that reminds you of a cat's ears and he's sporting an impressively thick beard.

"'m Logan," he says in the same deep voice you heard over the phone, holding a hand out towards you. You slip your palm against his much larger one and you're surprised by how warm his touch is.

"H-hi," you stutter, shaking his hand. You clear your throat. "Sorry, hi. Uh, come on in."

You move aside to let him through the doorway, not missing the fact that his shoulders practically brush the frame as he steps inside. Your apartment opens up directly into the living room and kitchen with a small dining area set in between and you gesture around.

"Well, this is most of it, to be honest. I know it's not much but--"

"It's quiet," Logan interrupts. "Ain't used to quiet."

"Where, uh," -- you twist the hem of your shirt -- "where are you coming from? Exactly?"

"Kind of a long story. Right now I sleep on a couch in a shitty one bedroom apartment shared by an asshole who doesn't shut the fuck up and a blind cocaine addict."

"Oh," you reply, nodding despite your lack of understanding. "Yeah, it's just me here. Well, and Dumpling."

"Dumpling?"

As if summoned by his name, your cat appears, making a swift beeline for the newcomer. He twists around Logan's legs, butting his head against his shins. You bend down, scooping him up in your arms.

"This is Dumpling. He's cute, but he'll knock over any plants so I wouldn't recommend you take up indoor gardening if you decide to live here." Logan eyes Dumpling warily before holding a hand out. Dumpling sniffs his fingers daintily and rubs head against his palm. "I think he likes you."

Logan huffs, the sound close to a laugh, and it makes you smile. He looks up at you and for a moment you forget that you're complete strangers who have just met. He feels inexplicably familiar, his presence comforting, and you're surprised by it.

"Let's look at the bedroom," you finally say, breaking the moment. You turn, heading for the hall and he follows behind you, steps surprisingly light for such a large man. You take him to the last door at the end of the hall and enter the empty room. "This is it. It's kind of small, but all the rooms in New York are pretty much shoe boxes. It's got a closet and access to the fire escape, though.”

"Better than the couch," he says, looking around the room. "You said $950?"

"Plus half of the utilities," you add. He nods.

"Look, I'll be honest. I'm...between jobs right now." He sighs. "And my schedule can be...unpredictable."

"Oh," you mumble. You think about it for a moment. Renting the apartment to Logan would be a risk but...you can't help but notice that exhaustion in his eyes, how it's clear he's trying to get back on his feet in one way or another. "That's okay. We can work something out."

He raises an eyebrow at you. "Really? You sure about that?"

Were you?

"Yeah," you reply. "I'm sure."

Having a roommate is...an adjustment.

Logan is great. He does his dishes in a timely manner, doesn't leave any clothes on the bathroom floor, and even cleans Dumpling's litter box from time to time.

But he drives you insane and it has nothing to do with his qualities as a roommate and everything to do with how unbearably attractive he is. He could be doing the most mundane activity and suddenly you're more turned on than a faucet on full blast. On top of it all, he's surprisingly sweet for such a gruff man.

Currently, you're watching him pour himself a glass of whiskey. You know he's probably preparing to take the drink to his room so that he can have a cigar on the fire escape, but you find yourself wanting his company.

"Logan?" you ask. He looks at you over his shoulder.

"Yeah, bub?"

"Would you...want to watch a movie? With me?"

He turns to fully face you, leaning against the counter and taking a sip of his drink, dark eyes on you over the rim of the glass. You swallow nervously, prepared to retract your offer and hide out in your room for the rest of eternity, but he puts you out of your misery.

"Sure." He comes over to the couch, taking a seat that's a respectable distance away. "What are we watching?"

"Have you seen The Greatest Showman?"

A musical. He's sitting through a goddamn musical.

"You kinda look like that guy," you say from beside him. Logan tilts his head.

"I don't see it."

"It's the bone structure."

"I'm bigger than him." You mumble something under your breath that he doesn't quite catch, though he thinks it sounded suspiciously like yeah, you are. "You say somethin'?"

"Huh?" You shake your head. "No, nope. Didn't say anything."

Logan relaxes against the back of the couch, settling in. You're curled up against the armrest, a blanket covering your legs and your arms wrapped around a throw pillow. You look relaxed, at ease, a stark contrast to how you had been when he first moved in. You spent more of your time hidden in your room and he's happy to see you're getting more comfortable around him.

It's also torture. You're like a drug that he can't get enough of, a high that doesn't last long enough. He clings desperately to every smile you grace him with and falls asleep with the sound of your voice echoing in his head. He wakes up looking forward to seeing you, even if it's just in passing before you head out for your very normal job as part of your very normal life.

That's what gives him pause. You're not like him, not built for violence, and he would never drag you into that life. He thinks about Vanessa and Wade and the wedge that was driven between them they're working to repair and he can't bear the thought of having you just to lose you.

Logan's so lost in his own thoughts he doesn't realize that the movie has ended and you haven't moved. Your head is angled in a way that has to be uncomfortable, your mouth dropped open as you breathe slowly and deeply. He grabs the remote from the coffee table and turns the TV off, plunging the room into darkness as he stands and quietly approaches you.

He slides one arm beneath your knees and using the other to support your back, lifts you from the couch. You settle your head against his chest but otherwise your sleep remains undisturbed as he carries you down the hall into your room.

It's not the first time he's been in your personal space. One time he woke up to Dumpling clawing at his chest and he marched the animal back to your room for the night, barging in on you while you had been up reading. He remembers the queen sized bed in a wooden frame and a dresser with a drawer that won't shut take up most of the space, the plain white of your walls replaced by a soft blue. You've installed what he first thought were regular shelves but later learned are meant for Dumpling to use for late night acrobatics that he can sometimes hear from his room.

Logan sets you gently on your bed and pulls the quilt up to your shoulders. Before he can think better of it, he reaches a hand toward your face, tracing his thumb over the high point of your cheek. You turn towards the sensation, chasing his touch, and his chest grows tight. He sighs, stepping back and turning for the door.

Dumpling sits in the doorway, flicking his tail. Logan steps around him into the hallway, the cat's gaze following him.

"Shut up," he whispers.

Dumpling meows in return.

You're disoriented when you wake the next morning. The last thing you remember is being on the couch with Logan and watching The Greatest Showman, but somehow you've ended up in your room. You turn over in bed to find Dumpling on your other pillow, curled in a ball.

"Morning, Dumpy," you murmur, scratching his head. "How'd we end up here?"

Dumpling blinks unhelpfully at you before uncurling from his spot and hopping from the bed, leaving through your open door. It's then that you notice that you can hear grunting noises coming from the living room.

You get up to investigate and stop dead in your tracks, mouth dropping open when you find the source of the noise is a shirtless Logan doing push ups on the living room floor. The broad muscles of his back ripple with each movement, each push accompanied by a small grunt that makes your thighs clench together, imagining him making that noise when--

Logan stops, jumping to his feet and you shake your head free of the salacious image it began to create. He turns, giving you an uninhibited view of his thick chest that's covered in dark hair that trails down over defined abs before disappearing beneath the elastic of his sweatpants. You have to say something, anything, but your brain is full of static, unable to operate when he's standing there looking like that.

"Morning," he says.

"Good morning!" you reply, voice pitched higher than usual. You walk past him in a way you hope is casual, heading for the kitchen and prepping the coffee machine. "You got any plans today?"

"Got a friend who needs my help with something. Don't know when I'll be back." His voice is much closer than you expected and you turn from the counter to find him right behind you, a scant few inches of space between your bodies.

"Oh?" you whisper, keeping your gaze firmly on his face. "Is everything okay?"

"It will be."

He drifts impossibly closer, chest nearly brushing yours. Your heart pounds in your chest, a frantic rhythm that's become familiar ever since Logan entered your life. Reaching above your head, he grabs two mugs in one large hand, setting them on the counter behind you before taking a step back and turning to head for his room without another glance in your direction.

You sag against the counter, a wave of lust addled adrenaline crashing over you and leaving you breathless. The last thing you need to be doing is getting involved with your roommate, no matter how tempting he may be.

Dumpling jumps up on the counter beside the coffee pot and stares at you, likely waiting for food, but it feels more like judgment in his green eyes.

"Shut up," you whisper to him.

Dumpling meows, batting you with a paw.

You're sitting on the couch when there's an unexpected knock at your door. Logan is still gone, helping a friend and you're not expecting anyone, so you’re not sure who it could be. You check the peephole before opening the door and see the distorted image of a man in a red suit and mask supporting the weight of your roommate against his side.

"What the fuck?" you ask as you open the door in a panicked rush. The masked man waves his fingers at you.

"Hi there! I've got a very," -- he grunts, adjusting his grip on Logan -- "heavy delivery."

Logan's eyes are closed, head flopped back on the masked man's shoulder. Blood stains his t-shirt in spots that look suspiciously like knife wounds and you gasp.

"What happened to him?!" you shout. "Oh my god, he needs to go to the hospital--"

"He just needs a little power nap," the man says. "I'm Wade, by the way. You mind if I just--"

Wade drags Logan through the apartment, depositing him on your couch with a huff, wiping his hands together. He looks around and you're shocked when the eyes of the mask seem to move, as if mimicking his facial expressions.

"This is a nice place," he says. Dumpling meows and Wade gasps. "You have a cat?! I wish I could pet you, sweet kitty, but Dogpool would put me in the dog house. Ha! Get it?"

"I'm confused," you manage to say. "My roommate is bleeding out on my couch after being dropped off by some wanna-be Avenger--"

"Ouch!"

"And you're saying he doesn't need to go to the emergency room?"

"Nope." Wade lifts Logan's shirt. "See? Good as new."

Despite the blood and tears on his shirt, there's no wounds on Logan's body. He shifts, lifting an arm to smack Wade's hand away as he groans, eyes fluttering open. He glares at the man.

"Get out," he growls.

"Now, now, that's not being a very good host, Logi. What, were you raised by wolves?" Wade replies. Logan roars, a ferocious sound that's more animal than man. His hand curls into a fist and sharp metal blades extend from between his knuckles. "Okay, okay, I'm leaving, no need for the murder mittens." Wade looks at you. "You should come to Sunday dinner!"

"Wilson!" Logan shouts. Wade finally heeds the man's warnings, rushing for the door without another word, shutting it behind him. Logan sags against the couch, blades retracting into his hand. He tilts his head back, closing his eyes.

You stand there in shock, trying to make sense of everything you just witnessed. Logan should be halfway to dead by now, but he doesn't even have a scratch on him. He has claws. How does he have claws?

"Can hear you thinking," Logan says, eyes still shut. "Just say it."

"Say what?" you ask. He lifts his head.

"Tell me to get out, scream, whatever it is."

You sit down on the couch, facing him. "Why would I do that?"

"Because that's what you should be doing."

His hand rests on his thigh and you reach for it, lifting it to eye level for a closer look at his knuckles. You trace your thumb over the smooth skin, up over his strong forearm. He watches you, face almost pained.

"I'm not scared of you," you whisper. "You wouldn't hurt me."

"But I could," he bites back.

"You won't." You're certain of that. You set his hand back on his thigh and stand from the couch, intending to grab him a glass of water from the kitchen, but he stops you with a hand around your wrist. His grip is loose enough that you could break free, but you don't.

Logan looks up at you with an unreadable expression, something close to fear mixed with a conflicting emotion that you think -- or hope -- might be desire. He tugs your wrist, bringing you to stand between his legs.

"How can you be so sure?" he asks.

You place your hand on his cheek, the coarse hair of his beard scratching at your palm. His eyelids flutter and his lips part on a sharp inhale.

"You're a good man, Logan Howlett," you murmur. He closes his eyes tightly and takes a deep breath.

His next movements are quick -- a hand on the back of your thigh, dragging you onto his lap, the other wrapping around the back of your neck to pull you close, his lips capturing yours in a savage kiss. You melt into him, meeting his urgency with your own desperation, tongues tangling together and fighting for dominance.

You pull back to trail kisses across his jaw until you reach his neck, sinking your teeth into the tan skin, just over his hammering pulse. Logan groans, fingers digging into the flesh of your ass, pulling you tightly against him as his hips buck into yours.

"Fuck," Logan says, voice a deep rumble that you feel to your marrow. "Do that again."

"Do what?" you tease.

"Bite me," he demands. "Make it hurt."

You obey, biting down into his shoulder with greater effort, sinking your teeth in deep until he hisses from the pain of it and you let go, lifting your head to look at the mark you've left behind. It fades quickly, disappearing without a trace.

"Jesus," he says, pulling you in for another kiss, slow and deep, as his hands find the hem of your shirt. "Let me see you."

You allow him to lift your shirt up and over your head, exposing your breasts to his hungry gaze. His touch makes you shiver despite the heat of his hands as he traces the curve of your waist up to your chest, his thumbs finding your nipples and teasing them with slow circles. You drop your head back with a moan and he takes the opportunity to kiss your neck, your collarbone, moving down until his lips wrap around one taut bud.

"Logan," you whine, digging your fingers into his hair and holding tight. He hums, the sensation making your eyes roll.

"Thought about this," he murmurs, switching to your other breast. "Every time you'd wear those goddamn tight shirts of yours."

"Really?"

"Mhm."

"Wanna know what I thought about?" You tug his hair, pulling his head away from your chest. "Sucking your cock."

He raises his eyebrow at you and you take the opportunity to slide from his lap, settling on your knees between his spread thighs. You work his belt loose, followed by the fly of his jeans. He reaches past the waistband to free his cock and your mouth waters at the sight. You could tell he was big while you were on his lap, but he's even more glorious than you imagined. Thick, long, with prominent veins and a slight upward curve that you know will hit all the right places.

You take him in your hand, appreciating the weight of him in your palm as you hold him steady. With your eyes locked on his face, you open your mouth and stick out your tongue to lick from the top of your fingers to the flushed head. He groans, his hand curling into a fist that he presses to his forehead.

"Fuck," Logan hisses. You do it again, this time swirling your tongue around the tip before taking him into your mouth, moving down his length slowly. "God, look at you. Mouth stuffed so full you're drooling, huh?"

He's right. Spit gathers at the corners of your lips and runs down your chin as you use your mouth to pleasure him. The sounds he makes above you are downright filthy, deep moans and filthy praise that have you moving faster, taking him deeper, working to get as much of him in your mouth as you manage without gagging. He cups your cheek with one large palm, thumb tracing your stretched lips.

"Keep going, sweetheart. You can take a little more, can't you? That's it," he says. Tears burn your cheeks with the effort to obey, your throat tightening around the head of his cock. "Fuck, that's a good girl."

You breathe deeply through your nose, maintaining a steady pace and using your hand in tandem with your mouth for what you can't easily take. Logan's hips begin to flex beneath you, his words trailing off into guttural growls. His cock twitches in your grasp and he moans your name before his release floods your mouth and you swallow it down.

You pull off of him with a slick pop, gasping for breath. Before you can say anything, Logan is hauling you to your feet as he stands from the couch, lifting you up with one strong arm beneath your ass and urging your legs around his waist.

"What are you doing?" you ask.

"Just getting started."

Logan kicks the door open to your room, startling Dumpling from his perch. The cat races out the door, disappearing into the living area as the door clicks shut. He sets you down on your bed and quickly rids himself of his boots and rest of his clothing before returning his attention to you.

You're lying there in your little sleep shorts that drive him nuts. The fabric barely covers your ass and there's been more than one occasion where he's shuffled into the kitchen in the mornings to see you in them, all the blood in his body rushing south at the sight. He joins you on the bed, on his knees between your spread thighs, and extends a single claw. Your eyes widen, but you don't pull away. In fact, you start squirming, hips flexing minutely against the mattress.

"Scared yet?" he asks.

"I wouldn't say that.”

He carefully slips the blade beneath the hem of your shorts, inching it up until it peeks out above the elastic waistband before twisting his wrist and slicing through the fabric like it's nothing. Claw retracted, he removes your ruined shorts and takes a moment to appreciate the vision you make, legs spread wide and your dripping pussy on display.

"You're a mess," he says, smoothing his hands over the soft skin of your legs. He lifts one of your knees, pressing a kiss to the inside of it before resting it on his shoulder. "Gonna clean you up."

Logan dips his head to your center, dragging his tongue through your soaked sex, groaning when the taste of you blooms across his tongue. Your fingers curl against his scalp, a sharp point of pleasure-pain as he explores your body. He swirls his tongue over your clit, experimenting with broad circles and sharp flicks until you're writhing beneath him.

"Logan," you cry, hips bucking against his face. He dips his tongue into your cunt, nose brushing your clit as he does, and he hums in satisfaction as your thighs tense around his head.

He looks up at you and drinks in the picture you make, gorgeous skin glistening with sweat and your back arched from the bed, chest heaving with desperate breaths. He wants this exact moment burned into his memory, certain it could chase away the dark shadows that linger there.

Logan presses two fingers to your hole, sliding them in with little resistance. You're so warm and tight, squeezing his fingers beautifully, calling out his name as he curls them when he drags them from your body.

"I'm going to come," you gasp. "Oh, fuck, just like that!"

You pulse around his fingers and he slows his movements to work you through it until you collapse against the mattress with a deep sigh. He carefully removes his hand and sits up on his knees.

"Guess I made more of a mess," Logan says. Your eyes squeeze shut with a breathless giggle.

"I'll forgive you," you reply. You reach your arms up for him and he moves to hover over you to accept your embrace. "God, Logan," you murmur, tilting your chin up to kiss him.

In this position, he's able to drag his cock through the slick mess between your thighs and you shiver beneath him, gasping into his mouth. He does it again, more purposeful this time and it drags a moan from you both.

"Please," you murmur.

"Please what, sweetheart? Tell me what you want," he replies. "What you need."

"Need you to fuck me."

Logan reaches between your bodies and positions the thick head of his cock at your entrance, pushing forward. The stretch of him is unreal, almost too much even with how wet you are for him.

"Relax," he says, holding himself steady above you. "You can take it."

You nod and he pushes forward another inch, letting you adjust, and repeating the process until the coarse hair at the base of his cock tickles your sensitive skin. You've never been so full, no other experience compares to this. No other man compares to Logan, in any way.

He starts moving slowly, dragging his hips back until you're nearly empty before plunging back inside. Each thrust puts stars in your vision, makes the knot of want and need coil tighter in your lower belly, until you're moaning his name and begging him to move faster, harder, deeper.

Logan obeys, thrusting into you with enough force that your head board collides with the wall. He sits back on heels, dragging you up with him until you're sitting in his lap and he's able to thrust up into you.

"Feel so fucking good," he says, lips against your neck. "Need you to come for me, baby."

You nod, wrapping your arms around his shoulders and holding him close, meeting each of his thrusts with a rock of your hips that drags your clit against him, your nerves buzzing with the friction and fullness. While the orgasm he wrenched from you with his mouth felt like a wildfire, this one builds and builds, a wave cresting until it finally crashes and you cry out his name.

Logan leans forward to drop you back onto the bed, reaching a hand up to grip your headboard as he continues to roll his hips into yours, chasing his own release. His thrusts begin to grow more desperate until he presses in deep and you're flooded with warmth as he growls, long and low. The sound of splintering wood breaks through your post-orgasmic haze and you tilt your head back to find that his claws have extended through your headboard, splitting the wood and embedding into the drywall.

"I can fix that," Logan says breathlessly, tugging his hand free, claws retracting. You grin at him.

"Later," you reply, pulling him in for a kiss.

You've got better things to do right now.

Thank you so much for reading! For more of my writing, check out my masterlists!

#logan howlett #logan howlett x reader #logan howlett x you #logan howlett x fem!reader #logan howlett x female reader #logan howlett fanfiction #logan howlett fanfic #logan howlett smut #logan howlett fluff #logan howlett fic

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streetlamp-amber · 10 months ago

Text

never ending night

bruce wayne x femwife!reader

word count: 1.7k | divider by @saradika | requests are open!

CW: pregnancy, pure fluff NOTES: hello hi i’m ailís and i’ve been meaning to start a blog where i can post some one shots that i’ve been thinking of as a way to motivate myself to finally write down my ideas so this is it. i’ll be double posting my stuff on ao3 (which you can find in my bio) and will eventually make a masterlist as well as a navigation post with a list of fandoms/characters i write for. also, english isn’t my first language.

It was close to three in the morning when Bruce finally joined you in bed after a long night of patrolling and fighting bottom of the barrel criminals all night. He showered in the bathroom on the first floor of the manor to avoid making too much noise and waking you up, but when he finally walked in your shared bedroom, you were already awake, sitting up against the headboard.

“Darling, what are you doing still up?” Bruce asked you as he reached his side of the bed.

The room was dark par for the moonlight filtering through the gap between the curtains, meaning your husband had yet to notice the state you were in.

“Dick had a nightmare,” you answered, voice barely above a whisper due to how tired you were. “It took me two hours to get him to fall back asleep and when I finally came back here, this little one started kickboxing me and keeping me awake for another hour,” you continued rubbing your round belly in hopes of soothing your baby to finally catch some sleep.

“I’m sorry I wasn't here to help,” Bruce apologised, planting a kiss on your temple as he held you close to his body.

“It’s alright, Gotham needs you,” you dismissed, not at all angry.

“Still, you’re six months pregnant. You’re growing our child inside your body, you need all the rest you can get,” he softly argued. “I would've come home earlier but all the amateur criminals came out tonight.”

“Bruce, it’s fine,” you brought your hand up to his cheek and he leaned his head into your touch. “You’ve already been cutting your patrols shorter since we found out about the baby. As long as you keep coming back home to us, alive, then I’m not mad.”

Not knowing what to say – his gratefulness for having someone so accepting of his duty as Batman was almost overwhelming, even after all those years – Bruce kissed your palm while staring at you with the same look full of love that he has been sporting since the first time he met you six years ago.

“How’d I get so lucky to fall in love with the most understanding and selfless person I know?” He asked while grabbing your hand on his cheek, wrapping his fingers around yours and squeezing them gently.

“Now that’s a lie,” you rebutted, a loving smile on your lips, lowering your joined hands on the bed. “You’re more selfless than I am. You’re the most selfless man in the world.”

“Let’s not start this never ending argument again,” Bruce chuckled, now his turn to hold your face as he brought you in for a kiss.

You happily sighed against his lips, the feeling of home that overtook you every time you tasted them was a nice welcome in this interminable night. But the kiss was cut short as you felt your baby kick again and you let your head fall back as you groaned.

“She’s still kicking?” Bruce asked you, he couldn't see the movements under your skin due to the darkness of the room and your hand on your belly.

“We don't know it's a she,” you reminded him instead of answering. You had both decided to wait until the birth to know the gender.

“And I’m telling you, I know it's a girl,” your husband repeated for what could be the hundredth time.

You also secretly hoped it was a girl, but Dick really wanted a little brother. Bruce and you were still in the process of warming him up to the idea of a little sister and it was slowly starting to work.

“As long as she doesn't come in my room,” your eight year old son had said last week, with his arms crossed over his chest and a pout on his lips.

“I doubt she’ll be doing that for the first few years, chum,” Bruce reassured him, fighting off a slightly amused grin.

“And the baby will have its own room with its own toys,” you added.

“Will I still be able to play with the baby?” Dick asked after a moment, uncrossing his arms and a hopeful look filling up his blue eyes.

“Of course you will, bubs,” you said, your fingers threading through his black hair that fell over his forehead.

“But only with her toys at first, some of yours are not suited for a baby,” Bruce pointed out, ever the overprotective father.

Bruce had lowered himself down under the blanket so he could be laying head levelled with your belly, his hand now replacing yours over the bump.

“Hey trouble,” he whispered to your child and the baby kicked again, making him smile lovingly at the movement he felt under his hand. “You shouldn't be awake this late at night, you know.”

“You're one to talk,” you commented, tone almost reprimanding.

“She doesn't know that,” Bruce looked up at you as he defended himself before his gaze fell back on your belly. “Mommy is really tired,” he continued talking to your baby, his hand now rubbing soothingly over your round stomach, “and she needs her rest to do all the work so you can come out all healthy and beautiful. Well, you're definitely gonna be the most beautiful baby if you end up looking like your mother, but that's not the point.”

You smiled at the cheesy comment and your fingers found their place in Bruce’s hair, brushing through it and nails occasionally scratching his scalp.

“Your brother Dick can't wait for you to come around,” he carried on. “Said he will teach you all sorts of acrobatic tricks once you know how to walk. And he asked Alfred if he could help paint the nursery when we finally decide on a colour.”

“And I keep telling you we should do soft green,” you argued.

“I’m not changing my mind from primrose pink,” he told you with a sly grin.

“The room won’t be pink, even if it’s a girl. And that’s final,” you firmly said. Your husband will not be winning this one argument, no sir.

Bruce sighed, rolling his eyes before focusing back on your belly. “I hope you’re not as stubborn as your mother,” he whispered to the baby, as if he was having a private conversation with them and that you weren’t there. “Don’t get me wrong, it’s one of the many reasons why I fell in love with her, but I won’t be able to say no to you even when I have to, so it would save me a lot of reprimanding from Mommy if you’re not as tenacious as her.”

You smiled to yourself as you continued listening to your husband talk to your unborn child as you threaded your fingers through his hair, enjoying the softness it had after a shower. Bruce usually gelled his hair to appear more professional when he was working in the day, and then it would get all mixed up with his sweat under his cowl when he was working as Batman. When he would come back to you after the day was over, you would refuse to touch his hair until he had showered, the texture of the gel and sweat too gross on your fingers for you to ignore.

As Bruce continued talking to your baby, his voice started lulling the two of you to sleep. The baby hadn’t kicked in over almost ten minutes now, and the peace you had waited for so long to arrive made you aware of how heavy your eyelids were. You slowly lowered yourself down the bed, getting in a comfortable position with Bruce’s help where you could finally lay your head on your pillow and it didn’t take long for sleep to catch up on you.

At the sound of your soft, barely audible snores, Bruce turned his head away from your bump to find you asleep with your free hand raised next to your head on your pillow, the other one still tangled in his hair.

He planted a soft kiss on the exposed skin of your belly, eyes closed as he took a moment to absorb the fact that a baby that was half you and half him would be joining your world in a little more than three months. Bruce wasn't known to cry, the only time you ever saw him cry was as you walked down the aisle at your wedding, but tonight, a lonesome tear rolled down his cheek and fell on your stomach, where your child was growing, because Bruce never believed he would ever get to experience again the amount of love he hadn't felt since he was eight years old.

As he observed you, sleeping soundly with his child coming to life inside you, after you comforted Dick back to sleep, Bruce, for a moment, felt overwhelmed by all the love in his life. When he became Batman, he crossed out the idea of ever having a family (other than Alfred), of settling down with someone he loved and who loved him back.

But somehow, the universe put you on his path, as a miracle or a guardian angel or simply as an anchor to life outside of Batman, he didn't know. You walked into his home, into his life, to remind him that he, Bruce Wayne, was also deserving of love, of family, of happiness. Then Dick came along, rather unexpectedly but still no less welcomed, and Bruce started entertaining the idea of having children with you. He definitely wasn't opposed to it, but it wasn't something he wanted to jump right into, especially with Dick having just entered your lives. You were both young, he in his early thirties and you in your late twenties, you could allow yourselves a couple of years just the three of you (four with Alfred) before expanding the family.

So it was rather shocking when two months after you and Bruce had officially adopted Dick that you found out you were pregnant. It both took you by surprise but after talking through it together, you couldn't be happier. And the two of you haven't stopped being happy about this new little addition ever since.

Bruce rose up from his position next to your belly, your limp hand fell from his head as he did so, and he laid on the bed next to you. He delicately kissed your forehead, then your nose before falling back on his pillow and whispered “I love you” as he curled around your body, his hand resting on your belly as he fell asleep.

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miss-oranje-disco-dancer · 2 months ago

Text

then send me a son

pairing: joel miller x reader

cws/tags: so much angst (w/ happy ending! i swear), discussion of suicide attempt (the canon one), suicidal ideations, losing a child, losing a parent, survivors guilt, discussions of abortion, unplanned pregnancy, p in v, oral sex, virginity loss (but it's not that big of deal/not a kink), both dealing w grief, ellie is dead, this is set in jackson post tlou pt I

summary: joel is put on suicide watch after he returns to jackson w/o ellie and reader becomes his 'caregiver' of sorts. lowkey enemies to lovers but also not bc it's kinda one-sided 'hatred'

a/n: author is pro-choice! and also understands the complexities of mental health that reader and joel do not at times (just wanted to make it clear that i understand... from personal experience... what depression is like as well as suicidal ideation).

title is from the song 'the suburbs' by arcade fire, but listen to the entirety of the suburbs (album) and funeral (album) if you want to understand my mindframe while writing this

the last sentence is a quote and i've reblogged it before but i'll find the image and post it/reblog it again

wc: 9.4k

masterlist | ko-fi | taglist

Joel is just surprised Tommy has the gall to ask, “Where’s Ellie?” when he arrives in Jackson alone.

In this world, when two people leave and only one comes back, you don’t ask because you already know what happened. You wait for that person to tell you about a miracle, and when they don’t, you know for sure.

“Heaven, if you believe in that sort of thing,” is Joel’s response.

But Joel doesn’t believe in Heaven or Hell, or anything other than ashes and dirt.

“I don’t know what to say,” Tommy says because he’d already said ‘I’m sorry’ when Sarah died, and that didn’t bring her back.

It takes a hefty amount of booze to get Joel to tell the story.

“I just hope she died for something. Then, at least, I’ll know I’m being selfish.”

I didn’t get that with Sarah, he thinks. She didn’t die for a ‘noble cause’. He doubts Ellie did either.

“You’re being put on watch,” Maria tells him the next morning – when he’s sober and asking what his duties are now that he’s back.

Life goes on, which means work goes on, so what’s my job? As long as it’s not burning bodies, I’ll be okay.

“Watch? Like I’m watching, or I’m being watched.”

“Being watched.”

He asks why, though he doesn’t need to. Tommy knows why he’s got that scar on his forehead.

“Fucking authoritarian bullshit,” he mutters, half into his pillow. “Thought you were a communist.”

“I am. And this has nothing to do with that.”

“I bet Tommy put you up to it anyway.”

“He didn’t ‘put me up to anything’.”

“But he told you, didn’t he?”

“He told me a long time ago.”

“Figures. You always knew I was a coward.”

“You say stuff like that, and then act like you don’t need help.”

“I didn’t say I don’t need help. I said I don’t want it.”

She’s silent, letting him continue. “Now let me grieve in peace, will you?”

She hums something akin to agreement, but asks for something that sounds like protest to him. “Where’s your gun?”

“Which one?”

“All of ‘em.”

He tells her because he doesn’t want Tommy or anyone else searching through all his bullshit because that’s what happens if he doesn’t give ‘em up.

“Want my kitchen knives too?” he says, almost wryly.

She takes most of them, but leaves the more blunt ones out of sympathy. He can have butter on his toast. Unless she takes the toaster so he can’t take it with him in the bathtub.

She leaves the toaster, and then, leaves him alone.

Quite frankly, he’s too old to kill himself. Sure, people do it at his age, but he’s so goddamn tired. Moreover, he knows he could get someone else to do it pretty easily. Maybe he could be a martyr. He could save someone from a clicker or a soldier. He could save someone’s life for once. But would that be enough to save his soul? To make it to Heaven and see Ellie and Sarah again?

Maybe, he would, if God really does love people the way some say he does. But if Joel was God, he’d deny himself entry.

He stays in bed for the rest of the day. Aside from the two times he eats. And once in the middle of the night to take a piss because he may be depressed, but the last of his dignity is motivation enough not to wet the bed.

He doesn’t shower or change his clothes. Not like he’s wearing a shirt anyway, just boxers ‘cause it’s too hot outside and he doesn’t want to get up and turn on the fan. Sleep doesn’t come easy, but it comes. It comes because it has to, reluctant as it is.

He wakes up to the voice of an unfamiliar woman. Quieter than Ellie or Sarah, less stern than Maria or Tess. Not like he was expecting to hear from three out of four of those women, not outside of his dreams.

You’ve always cared about people, saving lives and all that. But you’re no good with a gun, so Tommy finds a better job than patrol for you.

“You’re going to be watching my brother, Joel.”

“Like, spying on him?”

“No, like making sure he doesn’t kill himself.”

A suicidal man is nothing new, especially in this world, but Tommy’s bluntness about it is. He acts as if it’s a normal job. Like the ones in office buildings that sound wonderful even though the people who tell you about them assure you it was barely better than life is now. This new watchmen position is the same as patrol, in a way. Terrifying in the gravity it holds. You have to keep someone alive.

You can shoot deer, you can run quickly, you can hide well. You can survive on your own. But, at age 10, your mom bled out as you sat by her side. You were too weak to carry her, to dig a grave and bury her. Your survival feels unearned, but you’re no good with guns. You’d miss if you tried to do it. That’s a rare thought anyway, and surely not one you plan to ever speak aloud. They’d put you on watch too, which sounds suffocating, in all honesty.

You don’t know Joel. You’ve heard his name in passing, but you arrived in Jackson during the period of time he was gone. He was going to take some girl to some hospital for something or other.

“What about that girl?” you ask. “Is she not taking care of him?”

“She’s not around anymore.”

“Oh,” you say.

He just nods. The ‘why’ of the whole arrangement makes sense, but you’re still unclear on the ‘how’. Am I just supposed to stay in his house 24/7? Is he allowed to shower on his own? Do I have to cook or do laundry?

“Just check in on him. He’s not the most… personable, but don’t take anything he says to heart.”

Just check in on him. It sounds simpler than it will be, you know that much. Even keeping a plant alive takes more than ‘checking in on it’.

You arrive at his house around 10 AM. You assume he’ll be awake, but when you look around his living room and kitchen, you can’t find him. Oh God, you think. What if he’s…

He’s asleep in bed. You’re pretty sure. He’s lying there and there’s no evidence that anything’s wrong, but when you say his name from the doorway, he doesn’t move. So, you walk closer to him, just to make sure he’s breathing.

“Joel,” you say softly – because your other option is reaching out to touch him, and you feel that’s a little too personal, especially when he’s not wearing a shirt.

“Who the Hell are you and how did you get into my house?” he says.

“Tommy sent me.”

“Oh, so they’re making you watch me?”

“Yeah.”

You’re glad he knows about the arrangement. Maybe he’ll give you some direction on what to do with him.

“Must hate you if they stuck you with me.”

You can’t tell if he’s being ironic, but you hope so. Still, you don’t know how to respond. You decide on a simple, “I’ll let you get some sleep. I’ll be downstairs if you need anything.”

Though you’re alone in the room, you sit with perfect posture on Joel’s couch, looking around at the decor – or lack thereof – looking for clues about who this man is.

You think about making him breakfast, but you’d have to raid his cabinets to do so, and you’re terrified to make any missteps when it comes to Joel. You don’t think he’ll kill himself over burnt toast, but there is a persistent need lodged inside your brain to make him like you. It’s a little selfish when you should be focused on just keeping him alive, but maybe if he likes you, he’ll feel better, maybe you’ll feel better too. That’s still nothing but the ever-lingering hope in your heart. But it’s something.

He comes downstairs eventually, in a t-shirt and a pair of pajama bottoms.

“Good morning,” you say.

“No, it ain’t,” he says, heading in the direction of the kitchen.

“Do you want me to help you with anything? Breakfast or coffee?”

“I can make my own damn coffee, kid.”

And he does. The first shred of kindness you get from him is an offer to pour you a cup.

“I’m alright, but thank you.”

He sits down in a chair across from you and sips his coffee as you watch him awkwardly.

“Are you really gonna do that all day?”

“Do what?”

“Sit there and stare at me.”

“I don’t know what else to do.”

“You could leave, for starters.”

“I’ll get in trouble.”

“What? You afraid Tommy’ll get upset with you?”

“A little.”

“He’s a softie. I wouldn’t worry too much.”

You are worried. Sure, you want Tommy to be happy with you, but moreover, you don’t want to leave Joel alone lest something happen to him. You might not know the guy very well, but you’d hate to see someone take their own life.

“Can I just stay here? I promise I’ll leave you alone.”

He shrugs, and you take it as a yes.

He does not need a caregiver or a watchman. He does not need you, but you look like a kicked puppy and there’s no way he’ll force you to leave. Another young girl he’ll reluctantly let stick by his side. It’s almost cruel of Tommy to send someone like you. Someone young and full of life. Someone he has a hard time pushing away.

He should’ve sent Joel a crotchety old bitch or a drill sergeant. Maybe Tommy thinks he’s doing Joel a favor by giving him a nice girl, polite and eager to please. It’s a good thing your chipper attitude irritates him. It’s the first item on the very small list of qualities that Joel dislikes.

At first, he insists on making his own food. You’re still a guest, even if he’s reluctant to have you as one. It doesn’t matter where he lives, he’ll always have been raised in Texas. He’ll always hear his mother calling him out on his lack of manners. His hospitality is force of habit.

Plus, if he lets you do anything for him, he’ll owe you something – at least in his mind. And he doesn’t want to owe anyone anything. He doesn’t want to give or get or build any kind of rapport with you whatsoever, especially since you seem to take all attention as progress, despite the fact that Joel is harsh with you most of the time.

The whole ordeal makes him feel like more of a failure than he did before. He couldn’t save Ellie, or Sarah for that matter, and now he’s being forced into his own retirement or held hostage depending on how you look at it, so he can’t even get the satisfaction that productivity brings.

He also finds himself pretty fucking bored without work. He became so used to being in constant battle, even in his sleep. One wrong move and he was dead. The worst injury he’s gotten in the past few weeks was a paper cut.

Reading was never his biggest hobby, but it’s not bad when you find the right book. Often, you’ll sit across the room from him and read a book of your own, and the silence as he relaxes into the couch is quite peaceful for a change.

No amount of peace and quiet can cure his boredom, though. It makes him antsy, and you notice. You notice a lot when your job is just staring at him, it seems.

“I found a book of crossword puzzles,” you announce.

“Congratulations,” Joel says.

“I thought since you were bored, I’d give them to you, and maybe you could do them…”

By the look on your face, he can guess that you’re regretting your words. Lest he make you cry, he accepts the book.

“Plus, it looks kind of old so I don’t know if I’d know how to do it myself,” you add.

He knows you don’t mean it as an insult, but it sounds like one, and it makes him laugh. The list of qualities Joel likes about you is already long — and buried deep in his subconscious — but he’ll have to add the fact that you can make him laugh.

“Are you calling me old?”

“Not in a bad way. You’re just older than I am.”

He flips through the book and finds that about 80% of them are done.

“Somebody did most of these already.”

“I’m sorry… maybe I could erase that person’s answers and then you could do them?”

“I think I’d still be able to tell.”

You hang your head in defeat.

“Gimme a pencil and I’ll try the ones that aren’t done yet.”

You look through his junk drawer, find a pencil, and hand it to him. He doesn’t expect you to sit on the couch next to him.

“I know you’re supposed to watch me, but you don’t have to watch that closely.”

You move away slightly, no longer looking over his shoulder.

“I was just curious about the answers.”

“I was kidding around,” he says (though, it’s only a half-truth). “Come back here.”

It takes him about a week to finish the book.

“Had to go back and fix some of the others,” he says. “The person who originally filled ‘em out was an idiot.”

“That’s not very nice. Maybe it was a kid.”

“Kid had great handwriting, then.”

You pause, hesitating for a reason he can’t pinpoint.

“What? You want me to say sorry for calling that guy an idiot. ‘Cause I will if it matters that much to you.”

“No, no, fuck that guy, he was an idiot,” you say, clearly taking after him.

“Language, Missy,” he says, jokingly scolding you.

“Sorry. I should stop swearing.”

“It’s okay. You probably picked it up from me anyway.”

“Maybe,” you agree. You’re fidgeting, holding something behind your back, he notices.

“Whatcha got there?”

“Oh, it’s nothing, really,” you say, holding it out to him. “I just figured since you finished the crossword book, I should get you more.”

He only did the crosswords for you. He never really cared for them anyway. He just wanted to make you happy — he’d rather have you content than pissy or whiny. The only thing worse than your constant insistence on getting his approval would be if you just sat there and cried all day.

He’d tried to give the book back to you, but you couldn’t do ‘em on your own since you were lacking in 90s pop culture knowledge. So, he did them, with you watching over his shoulder the whole time.

He’s about to admit this to you and hand the new one back over to you when he looks at the pages – white paper, stapled together, all drawn up in pen.

“Did you make these?” he asks, in awe of both your ability to draw perfectly straight lines, and moreover, how much you must care if you’re willing to go to these lengths. Kiss-ass behavior, he tells himself.

You nod, and he gets the sudden urge to hug you, but opts for a thank you with a smile he can’t repress.

“You didn’t have to do all this, but it’s very sweet of you.”

He considers taking back the ‘very sweet’ comment when he finds that 3 down is four letters with the prompt “grumpy old man”. JOEL fits perfectly in the blank spaces.

You go on walks, read endless books, and Joel finally lets you start taking on some of the housework. It should be nice, but you get the feeling he’s not all that happy about this situation. Not that he tells you it outright. He doesn’t tell you much at all. And you’ve tried. It’s not like you’re asking hard-hitting questions.

“How old are you?”

“56.”

“What’s your favorite color?”

“Blue.”

He doesn’t even bother to ask the same question back to you. Sometimes, he doesn’t even look up at you when you speak to him. You know it’s the depression of losing someone close to you, you know what that feels like – the problem is, you don’t know how to fix it. You only know how to hide it.

It’s quite simple, in theory. All you have to do is give him the desire to get out of bed every day. But you don’t even know what he likes. All you know is that your presence is not high on his list of favorite things. You try and try until you swear his shitty attitude is rubbing off on you.

Tommy checks in with you periodically, asking you how things are going with Joel, and this would be the perfect opportunity for you to get out of this position, which Joel would probably love, but to spite him, you tell Tommy it’s going well.

And it is, in a way – Joel is not actively mean to you. He doesn’t insult you or argue with you, he just mostly ignores you. So, you figure if you ignore him, maybe he’ll miss your attention. Stupid teenage bullshit mindset, acting like you have a crush on him, playing some sort of push and pull game that he’s not even privy to.

But that’s not like you. That brooding behavior is all Joel, so it lasts no more than a day or so until you go back to trying, and accept the fact that he’s just an asshole. Doesn’t mean you have to be one.

You never expected to win him over with the crossword puzzles but you see the look in his eyes when you give him the homemade ones, and you know there’s something in there besides all that pain. You know that look, can’t put a name to it, all you know is that it’s a good sign, one you had yet to see from Joel.

Joel wouldn’t have thought he’d get tired of hearing someone ask, “can I do anything for you?”, constantly begging to dote on him, to care for him. The last time someone did this for him was on Father’s Day, which is an ancient holiday now, almost mythical.

But it’s been weeks of the same old shit. It has nothing to do with you. In fact, you’re probably the best ‘caregiver’ he could’ve gotten stuck with. Thing is, though, he doesn’t want a caregiver, and he’s tired of said caregiver bombarding him. It’s enough to just have her watching him like a hawk, but yapping in his ear is another thing. Because he enjoys the quiet (and because the way you ask him questions reminds him of Ellie.)

It’s a joke, a stupid joke. It’s his patience wearing thin.

“Can I get you anything?” you ask.

“Sure. A beer, maybe. And a fuckin’ blowjob,” he mutters. Yeah, that’d be the dream but it’s a joke, bordering on a jab at you.

“I don’t think we have any beer,” you say. You both know damn well there’s no alcohol in the house.

“I know.”

“And, as for the other thing- is that something that you’d want… me to do?”

“Hey,” his tone softens. “Sweetheart, it was a joke. I was messing with you.”

“Okay, so you don’t want that, correct?”

“It was a joke. I’m sorry I even said it.”

“Don’t be sorry,” you say, sheepishly. “It’s your house, your rules, right?”

The concept of free speech in his house was one he’d brought up regarding ‘swear words’— It’s his house so he’s allowed to say ‘fuck’, ‘shit’, ‘bitch’, and every other word he could come up with, and he came up with some deep cuts just to make you laugh. Admittedly, it’s a nice sound.

“Yeah.” He thinks for a moment. “I just think that these sorts of topics aren’t appropriate for someone…”

“You know I’m an adult, right, Joel?”

“Yes, I know, but you’re still young and you seem a little innocent. I don’t want to put those types of thoughts in your head.”

“I know what a blowjob is, and I know what sex is. I just haven’t found the right person yet. That doesn’t mean I’ve never thought about it or whatever.”

You rarely snap at him, so he knows that word — innocent — must’ve been more offensive than he’d meant it. Maybe you’re not innocent. Maybe you’re just kind and a hell of a lot younger than him. Maybe it just seems like you should be.

“Hey, I didn’t mean to offend you. I’m just saying that I don’t want to take advantage of you.”

“But do you want it?” You punctuate every word with a newfound annoyance.

“It’s not about that.”

“Yes it is.” You’re quite incredulous for someone who has been presented with the idea only a moment ago.

“Fine. Yes, in theory, if we were just two people who know each other, then, sure, if you offered, I’d say yes.”

“I offered.”

The way he calls you ‘sweetheart’ feels more like an insult than a term of endearment. You’d rather be ‘kid’ or nothing at all, anything less patronizing. It’s worse when he calls you innocent. You’re not innocent, you’re just nice — something that Joel is not. You’re painfully nice. You’ve heard it makes people like you. You’re still waiting on the results, though.

But, if he’d ordered you to suck him off, you’d have kneed him in the balls, and he would’ve thought twice about calling you ‘sweetheart’. The thing is, he doesn’t. Instead, he backs away from the opportunity, tells you it was a joke.

But you see two things behind his eyes: one, he wants this. He might not want to want this, but he does. More importantly, you see his genuine concern for your well-being override this desire and you realize you feel safer around him than you do around most men. That’s one of the reasons that you do give him ‘a fuckin’ blowjob’. The other being that, sometimes, before you go to bed, you can’t sleep, and a certain man comes to mind as your fingers slip beneath the waistband of your panties.

When you reiterate that you offered, you exchange a long stare wherein you try to reach into each other’s souls and sort this shit out but when you both realize you can’t, Joel says, “Okay.”

And you say, “Okay.”

A new kind of tension bubbles to the surface as Joel sits down on the couch and you kneel before him.

You fiddle with his belt, eventually managing to get it undone, but Joel does the rest of the work it takes to get his pants down to his ankles, boxers too.

You’d imagined he’d be big, but that’s how fantasies work. Every man’s dick is big in your lewd daydreams, but it’s like you manifested it with Joel. You begin to feel like you’re in over your head, and though you aren’t innocent, you aren’t experienced enough to take him. But who are you to back down from a challenge?

Joel can see hesitation wash over your face for the first time. You pause, study the scene like you’re trying to decide your approach, and then you take his cock in your hand, looking up at him like you’re asking for the green light.

He gives you the go-ahead with the only piece of advice he thinks you’ll need. “Just don’t bite, and you’ll do fine.”

He probably should’ve mentioned another thing: don’t take too much at once or you’ll choke. His head lolls back and his eyes fall closed the moment your lips meet the tip of it. He doesn’t touch you, doesn’t want you to feel intimidated by his presence while you’re exploring, so to speak. He lets out a low groan of approval to let you know he’s still with you.

But he’s fading into a beautiful oblivion until he hears you gag, feels you sputter and it shocks him out of that blissful feeling. His eyes snap open and he cradles the back of your head.

“Easy, easy,” he says. “Don’t hurt yourself.”

You pull away briefly and catch your breath.

“That’s good,” he says. “Breathe, baby.”

He can see you looking for instructions, so he takes your hand and helps you get a firm grip on his cock, sliding your hand up and down, and finally letting you do it on your own.

“Doin’ good, baby,” he says. “You gotta give your mouth a break sometimes.”

You’ve never gotten anything close to praise from Joel before. It’d warm your heart like nothing else if it weren’t so goddamn sexy in this context.

You nod, wipe the spit from your chin, and give your mouth a brief break, but you can’t hold yourself back forever. Soon, your lips are back on his cock, kissing from the base to the tip, flicking your tongue over the head, seeing what reactions you can get from him.

When you get into the rhythm of hand and mouth in tandem, you barely register him telling you that he’s gonna come.

You imagine it’s an acquired taste but it’s not awful. You can swallow it. So, you do, and you look up at him with a smile.

He looks like he’s woken up from a dream and he’s still getting his bearings straight, but he’s quick to stand up and take your hand.

“Where are we going?”

“To my bed.”

You’d follow him anywhere but bed does sound good to you right now. It sounds like an adventure. You don’t go into his bedroom unless absolutely necessary. You’d think he was hiding something horrible in there if you didn’t have a mutual feeling regarding your own bedroom.

“Are we going to have sex?” you ask.

“No,” he says.

“Then, what are we going to do?”

“You,” he begins. “Are going to lie back and relax.”

He coaxes you to lie down, and he doesn’t have to try hard.

“I,” he continues. “Am going to make you feel good.”

You’re fairly certain about what he means, so there’s nothing left for you to do but let him do the work. It’s just another part of the job you’ll have to learn from experience.

“Tell me if you want me to stop,” he says.

You nod.

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

“Let’s get you out of these clothes,” he says, playing with the hem of your t-shirt.

“Wait-” you say, sitting up, and he withdraws. “Can we kiss… first?”

He looks surprised for a moment, and you worry you’ve fucked up.

“I just feel like we should do that,” you say, much quieter.

“Yeah,” he says. “I guess that makes sense.”

His hand cups your cheek and he looks you in the eyes like he’s trying to find answers somewhere in there.

“Has anyone ever kissed you before?”

“Not really, not the way I want you to kiss me.”

“Feels a bit rude of me to have put my dick in your mouth before you’d even been kissed.”

Still, he leans in and kisses you, but it’s soft, gentle. It’s not a peck on the lips, though, it’s more. It gradually gains momentum and passion. Eventually, he slips his tongue in your mouth and you take it in stride.

“You’re very good at this,” he says. “If I didn’t know any better, I wouldn’t think this was your first time.”

“Is that a compliment?” you ask, doubting Joel is capable of such things.

He ignores your question, and sighs. You know it’s not directed at you because you’re fairly sure he’s not listening.

“I know I said I was gonna do some things with you, but I don’t wanna take things too fast, okay?”

“Are you saying you’re just going to kiss me?”

“I think that’d be the right thing to do.”

“That’s not fair,” you whine.

You wish you could sound sexy, or whatever, but you probably come off like a bratty child.

“Excuse me?”

“That’s not fair. You said you’d make me feel good. I thought you were gonna return the favor.”

“I was.”

“Then, why are you backing out?”

You’re shocked that he’s the pussy — pun-intended — in this scenario.

“I thought it might be too much for you.”

You grab his hand and slip it under the flimsy fabric of your shorts.

His eyes go wide.

Fucking hell, you’re wet, is the only thought on Joel’s mind. It makes sense. He’d be offended, maybe even worried if you were dry as a desert down there, but he’s barely touched you. Either you really enjoyed kissing him or you actually liked sucking him off too.

He gently presses the pads of his fingers against the wet spot on your panties.

“You’re right, baby. It’s only fair if I help you out.”

He’s able to get your shorts and your panties down in one swift pull. You look impressed by the action. Just you wait, he thinks. He’s not an expert by any means, but it’s not too hard to learn if you pay attention — and sex is one of the only times Joel does listen — it’s also not a skill you lose over time. It’s muscle memory, or maybe it’s innate.

His thumb rubs your clit lazily as he watches your face scrunch up in pleasure, your eyes fill with need. When the first finger slips inside you, he hears a breathy sigh come from above — it sounds like relief though he knows you haven’t come yet.

He’s never had a woman have such a strong reaction to his lips on her clit. It almost startles him at first. You’re frantic from the moment his lips meet your skin, crying out for him like you’re scared he’ll stop.

“Hey,” he says, “I’m right here. Don’t have to get so worked up. I’m gonna take care of you.”

He can’t say another word because his lips are occupied, so he relies on his hands, his soothing touch, to tell you that everything is alright. He gets the urge to tell you how good you are for him, how good you taste, how pretty you are like this, but he knows it’d be cruel to let up now. He’s callous often, sometimes harsh, but rarely cruel.

His instinct tells him to drag this out, to make your thighs shake, to have tears running down your cheeks, to tease you. To be the asshole that he tends to be when you’re around (and when you’re not). This is a version of Joel you might come to like.

He’s lived long enough to be well-practiced in this field of life. Doesn’t matter if he’s particularly romantic or even sociable, it’s just happened enough times over the course of fifty plus years for him to know the ins and outs. He can get you there quickly and lead you through it slowly.

He’s so used to you saying his name in a tone he considers pestering that he’s begun to hate the word itself. But when it’s drawn out and desperate like this, it sounds wonderful.

You’re at his mercy, he thinks. Which means he’s in control. And, as much as he’d hate to admit it, control does not mean he can kill you, control means he can care for you.

When you come down from your high, Joel is looking up at you from between your thighs with messy hair and kiss-dark lips. His smile looks like one of pride. Your cheeks heat up, only half-remembering what just happened. You could describe the event simply in a cause and effect relationship — he went down on you, so you came. You know what an orgasm feels like, but that was something beyond anything you’d ever experienced before. You fear an addiction may be coming on.

Your voice comes out shaky, which only makes your first words after a long silence sound stupider. “Thank you.”

He looks confused, and it takes him a moment to respond. “My pleasure,” he says, and you swear it might be when you see a semi through his sweatpants.

You’d offer more ‘help’ but you truly don’t think you can manage it. You can feel your body pulling you towards sleep. Your eyes have barely opened and they want to close again.

Joel notices because how could he not, you’re completely naked in every sense of the word.

“Get some rest,” he says before standing up.

He’s leaving.

“Where are you going?” you ask, instinctively.

“Downstairs.”

You do not want to say it. The fear of rejection is too strong, but so is the sudden urge to cry. Holding back tears is a strength of yours, though, so Joel never sees them. Somehow, after doing one of the most adult things, you feel like a baby in the wake of it. You are supposed to be taking care of him, and you are failing.

“What?” is his response to your refusal to meet his eyes.

“I just assumed you were going to stay. That’s all.”

“I can. If that’s what you need me to do.”

You don’t say anything. He climbs into bed anyway after picking up your underwear and handing it to you.

He doesn’t hold you but he doesn’t leave either. What he does do is kiss you on the forehead when he thinks you’re already asleep. It’s a compromise between your fear and your desire.

It isn’t as weird as one might think it would be — acting as if you’ve never done anything remotely sexual with one another. It’s easier because you don’t have to go back to being friends. You never really were. It was always awkward. What’s new? Only your knowledge that at least some of your feelings are mutual. Only the fact that you think about having sex with him every time he’s in front of you. It’s really just out of curiosity sometimes. What would he be like in bed? Does he want it too? How would you even broach the subject?

Sometimes, it’s not just curiosity. Those days are harder to navigate. You have to pretend like every little touch — most of them accidental — fuels the fire. It’s not the sensation itself. It’s just the acute awareness of his body, how close it is to yours, how easily you could reach out and touch him, that enters your mind.

“You’re staring.” Joel says from the other side of the couch.

“Sorry. I zoned out.”

“Got something’ on your mind?”

“Not really.”

“C’mon, what is it?”

“Why do you suddenly care about my thoughts?” About me.

“You think I didn’t care about you before? You’ve been in my house everyday for months now.”

“So?”

“And, I haven’t tried to kick you out yet.”

“You’re not allowed to kick me out. That doesn’t mean anything.”

“Okay. How ‘bout this: I’m down here sitting with you because I know you don’t like to be alone.”

“So you pity me?”

“No, if I pitied you, I’d have told Tommy to give you a new job.”

“Okay, so, you expect me to believe you care but you refuse to talk to me half the time.”

“I’m not much of a talker. But, now that I’m trying to talk to you, you’re shutting me out.”

“I’m not— It’s just not a big deal. I don’t even remember what I was thinking about anyway.”

“Bullshit.”

“What?”

“I said, that’s bullshit.”

“Okay, fine. I’ll talk.”

You take a deep breath before speaking, one long enough that he gestures for you to go on.

“I was just thinking about what it would be like if we had sex.”

“Excuse me?”

“Well, since we, you know, we did that stuff… it’s not like it’s a totally crazy thought.”

“‘That stuff’? Be more specific, honey.”

“You know what I’m talking about.”

“I do, but you can’t be thinking about having sex with me when you can’t even use big girl words when you’re talking about it.”

“It doesn’t even matter.” Your face is burning. It so, totally, does matter. “I was just curious.”

“Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Mm-hmm. Go on thinking, I’ll get back to reading.”

“Wait, what? You just made me tell you that to make me embarrassed? You’re not even gonna—”

“What? Gonna fuck you?”

The word slips out of his mouth so easily.

“I don’t know, maybe.”

“Well, I’m not.”

Truth is: he’s been thinking about you every day since. He only caught you staring because he was doing the same. He tries to restrain himself because it feels like the right thing to do.

But he still, he acquiesces and takes you upstairs to his bedroom.

He lays you down on the bed and undresses you slowly like you’re a gift and he doesn’t want to tear the paper. He places your clothes atop the dresser, but leaves his strewn across the floor.

Wonder fills your eyes as he reveals his naked body. Hesitation and awe wrapped up in one.

“Wow,” you say, breaking the silence, “it’s, um, you know— do you think it’ll fit?”

It’s not the first time he’s heard that. It no longer brings him that bashful pride that it did when he was younger. It’s just a fact. A nuisance sometimes.

“Not if we don’t get you ready first.”

“Do you need to get ready first too?”

He looks down at his cock, rock-hard and eager.

“No, baby, just looking at you is enough to get me ready.”

A thought crosses his mind — one he thought he’d left in his teenage years — what if he comes too quickly?

He lies back on the bed next to you and reaches for you, waits for you to let him maneuver you.

“Come here,” he says.

You sit up and face him, slowly inch towards his arms that beckon you.

You’re fairly sure you know what he wants you to do. Sit on his face. But god, something about it seems awkward in the amount of control you simultaneously give up and are given in turn.

“You trust me, right?” he asks.

“Of course.”

An answer you wouldn’t have ever thought you’d give back when you first met.

“Then, come sit on my face.”

You swing your leg over him and steady yourself above his face.

He grips your thighs to guide you. You grip the headboard to save yourself from passing out the moment Joel’s mouth meets your skin.

Joel wouldn’t be the man you’d have thought would have such a talented tongue based on how little he uses it. You can’t blame him for not talking right now. Your moans echo off his bedroom walls and permeate the balmy summer air. The windows are closed and the curtains shield your naked bodies from the neighbors but even if you’d left them open, you wouldn’t have the sense to care.

You’re an incoherent mess of moans and half-words, trembling thighs and sweat. Your orgasm comes on strong, and if your eyes weren’t screwed shut, maybe you’d see the gates of heaven.

It’s been a while since he’s done this. Tess never liked it like this and the last woman before her was one from another lifetime, pre-outbreak, an inconceivable world despite having once called it home.

He’s not really thinking about that, though, in this moment, all Joel can think of is you. Your skin, your sweat, your heat, and the pretty noises you make. At one point, he swears he hears his name though your thighs are covering his ears. And he doesn’t mind it one bit.

“I’m gonna pass out,” he hears from above him.

“No, you’re not. I’ve got you,” he tries to say, though surely his words are muffled.

“Don’t let me go.”

He doesn’t. He carefully helps you lie back on the bed. When he meets your gaze, he swears he’s never seen adoration like that in anyone’s eyes before. At least, not in a long time.

It terrifies him, but in spite of his hesitation, he holds you close.

A blanket of peaceful silence settles over your bare bodies.

You speak quietly, trying not to awaken Joel’s senses. The ones that pull him away from you. The moment feels like glass in your hands.

“Are we going to have sex?”

“Hm?”

“We were going to, right? You were getting me ready for it.”

“I thought I wore you out.”

“Maybe, but that doesn’t mean I want to stop.”

“I don’t want to hurt you.”

“I’d tell you if you were.”

He hesitates.

“I’ll be good. I promise.”

Those are the words that awaken his arousal. In an instant, you find his body looming above yours. He kisses you until your lips are red and puffy. He doesn’t break your gaze as he positions his cock at your entrance. Your green light is your needy hips begging him to fuck you.

He starts slow, even the head is a stretch. You scrunch up your face and hold back the urge to squirm.

“It’s gonna be a little uncomfortable at first, baby, and that’s why we’re gonna take it slow.”

Slow is an understatement. It takes ages for him to give you another inch — or maybe you’re just antsy. This one makes you whimper, makes you clamp down around him.

“It’s okay, baby. You’re gonna be fine.”

Joel’s voice is tender and sweet, and it gives you enough hope to ask for something you think he’d usually deny you.

“Can you hold my hand?”

He interlocks his fingers with yours. It feels oddly natural. He doubts he’s heard someone ask to hold his hand since— not now, he’ll go soft if he thinks about her. He’ll close in on himself and you need him — in more ways than one.

He continues slowly as he promised he would until he hears your moans of pleasure and your pleas for more, more, more. More is a little bit faster, a little bit harder, as deep as you can take it, and most importantly, his thumb tracing circles on your clit.

You squeeze his hand with yours as your inner walls clamp down around him.

“Just let it happen. It’s okay. I’m right here.”

When you come, he does too — the most blissful mistake he’s ever made.

Curses fly out of his mouth through his orgasm, stopping briefly as he catches his breath, and resuming when he pulls out and watches as his come drips out of you.

“Fuck. Shit. Fuck, I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” you insist. “I liked it.”

“I’m glad you liked it.” Because I fucking loved it. “But, it’s dangerous. We’ve gotta be more careful.”

In the future — it’s implied. Another time is nothing when the lines have all been crossed and when the other side brings him a warmth the hot summer never could.

You have more power over him than the sun.

It becomes a routine — briefly — and you are more careful. You discreetly buy condoms, but when your next period doesn’t come, you fear it might be too late.

You don’t tell Joel, not at first. Sometimes, they’re irregular, and you don’t want to give the man a heart attack. But then a week passes, another week passes, and eventually you have to — especially when you’re beginning to feel a bit nauseous and have no other explanation for it. It’s better to say something before he asks.

“Joel,” you say, “I haven’t gotten my period yet.”

A look of horror crosses his face before he asks, “How late is it?”

You take a breath before admitting, “A few weeks.”

“How many?”

“Almost three.”

“Fuck.” He sighs in preemptive defeat. “Have you taken a test?”

“No, I thought it would come so I didn’t want to overreact.”

“We’re going to go get one.”

He stands up immediately and turns towards the door.

“Wait,” you say, stopping him in his tracks.

“I should probably get it. It’ll look less suspicious.”

No, it won’t. Those who suspect something is up with you, will have their suspicions, and those who don’t, won’t think to pay attention.

They recommend taking multiple because false negatives are common.

The first one is a clear positive, so clear you think it might be a false positive, so you wait to freak out until you see two lines come up on the second test.

Joel is silent, even when you hand him the test.

But, so are you, because what more is there to say? The tests say it all.

“I’ll do whatever you need me to,” he says, and you’re surprised until he clarifies.

“I doubt they’ll make you pay for the pill or the procedure — however they do it, but I’ll take care of you while you’re recovering. I’ll be there through it all. Promise.”

The pill or the procedure. The abortion that he expects you to have. Truth be told, you hadn’t really thought about what you’d do until now. It’s probably the right decision. Do you really want to bring a baby into this world? Can you even take care of one?

“Okay,” you say. “I’ll make an appointment.”

You save your tears for Maria. She approaches you in the clinic. You’d be delighted to see her at any other moment.

“Making an appointment?” she asks.

“Yeah, just a checkup,” you lie.

The woman at the counter clarifies with you. “Just a checkup? Is that what you’d prefer?”

You turn back and forth between her and Maria.

“Um, no,” you say, “keep it as is.”

Maria raises an eyebrow and there is nowhere left to hide. You might be able to outrun her, but she knows where you live and isn’t afraid to confront you at your doorstep.

She saves you some of your dignity when she whispers, “How about a chat at my place? I have some tea that helps with nausea.”

The tea is persuasive but you’d have to go anyway. You don’t speak on the walk to Maria’s. She brews the tea and you sit across from each other in the kitchen before she finally speaks.

“What’s the appointment for?” she asks. “And I’m not here to judge you, I just want the truth.”

You’re not my mom, you could say, but she’s the closest thing you’ve had to one since your own passed.

“An abortion,” you say quietly, looking down at the table, at your hands around the mug.

“Okay,” she says, gently. “There’s nothing to be embarrassed about.”

You try to reply but all the comes out is a sob.

Eventually, she pries the truth out of you. You explain what happened when you told Joel the news.

“So, he made the decision, and then told you he’d be there for you if he did what you wanted?”

“I guess. But, I think it might be the right choice. I mean, it'd be hard to raise a child in this world…” You cut yourself off when you look at her bump. She’s gonna be a mom, a good mom. And, stupidly, you’re jealous.

Even though it’s not there yet, you swear you can see a high chair in your periphery. You could be holding a warm bottle instead of a hot mug of tea. Maria could be feeding her child his first bite of baby food next to you.

“Let me ask you something, and I want you to really think about it, and be honest with me.”

You nod and wait for her question.

“If Joel had said he’d support you no matter what, even if you wanted to keep the child, if he said he’d step up as a father, would you have made the appointment?”

“I don’t know.” Oh, but you do. Maria waits for you to come to a conclusion, for you to spit it out.

“I like the idea of having a kid. I love kids, and I sometimes think about what it would be like being a mom, but I know that I can’t be one. Not right now.”

If there is one thing Joel can’t be, it’s a father. Not again. He’s too old, too grouchy, too cynical. He’s not the man he used to be. He was never good at it anyway. He couldn’t save his own kid. He’s already a failed father — once, if not, twice.

You’d be a great mother, and that’s the greatest tragedy. He’s failed you already. He’s not good at the kinder things of life. He shouldn’t have indulged in you, in the love you gave him when he cannot give it back. There are a lot of things Joel can’t quite get right — being a lover, a father, a good man.

Every night since the outbreak began, he’s watched Sarah bleed out in his arms. Sometimes he sees Tess, Sam and Henry, Bill, even Tommy which feels like an augury. Ellie is there almost every night, losing consciousness. Only sometimes is she in that hospital bed, often, she’s lying in the show, with blue lips and almost no pulse. Now, you’ve begun to enter his subconscious. You’re always too far out of reach, screaming his name until he’s shot dead, and the last thing he hears is you shriek as you watch him die in front of you.

Another person is another tragedy once they have the misfortune of coming into his life. There cannot be another person, especially not a child.

You should be back by now, he thinks as he splashes water on his face for the umpteenth time, hoping it’ll wash away all the mistakes he’s made.

He can tell it’s Maria by the way her knuckles rap on his front door. He can tell she’s pissed too.

When he opens the door, he sees you in standing behind her, like you’re afraid of him.

“Unless you want to have this discussion on your doorstep, I suggest you let me — us — inside.”

He does, reluctantly.

“Joel Miller, when do you plan on becoming a man?”

“What?”

“You just told her to make an appointment, didn’t even give her a chance to think about it? You managed to run away from your problems while you’re on house arrest. Impressive.”

“I thought that was what we both wanted,” he says, looking past her, to you.

“I guess, maybe,” you shrug.

The one thing he’s grateful for is Maria’s suggestion that you talk privately.

You sit further from him than usual, you refuse to meet his eyes.

“I’m sorry I didn’t ask what you wanted. I thought I was making the right choice.”

“It’s okay. I don’t even know what I want.”

But the tears suggest otherwise.

“Do you want to keep the baby?”

“Maybe, but I can’t. It’s not a good idea.”

“That’s what I think, but Maria’s right, it’s your choice.”

“But I don’t know how to make that choice.”

“You’ve got a good heart. Follow it.”

You spend a lot of time thinking, remembering, and trying to convince yourself that there is no part of you that wants to be a mother. But, in your bedside drawer, there is a handful of photos — all from before the outbreak. You see your mom as a child on a swing set, and as a teen blowing out candles on her birthday. Her mom is in that one too, sitting next to her, smiling. You wish more than anything to have pictures of you and your mom.

You think about the little girl who pretended a ratty old stuffed bear was her baby. You can hear your mom telling you that you’re doing a good job, how you’ll be good at this one day. Your bedtime stories were never about fairy princesses, but about your family, the ones you didn’t get to meet.

“I wish I could have that,” you’d say.

“One day, you might be able to — the world is scary right now, but that doesn’t mean it’s gonna be like this forever,” she’d insist.

In retrospect, you wonder if she really believed that, if she really believed that teddy bear would one day be a baby that you’d be the one carrying, and she’d be the proud grandmother.

“I told her I wanted to be a mom like her,” you explain to Joel, and he understands.

You know about Ellie, but not about Sarah. Joel never brings either of them up to you. Until now. It’s a fair trade, he tells himself. Photos for photos, info for info. But it’s more than that.

“Hold on for one minute, I’m gonna go get something, and I’ll be right back.”

It’ll only take him a second to grab the pictures, but he’ll need a moment to compose himself.

“This is Sarah,” he says, pointing to the little girl in the photo. “My daughter.”

You’re silent for a moment, gazing at the photo, at a younger Joel you’ve never met.

You’re the first person not to tell him that you’re sorry for his loss, and he is relieved not to hear the empty sympathies once more.

“What was she like?” you ask.

It’s hard to explain, and for that reason, he talks for at least a half hour about Sarah. All her likes and dislikes, all his favorite moments from the day she was born until the day she died. He tells the story of that too.

When you try to tell him that he sounds like he was a good dad, he has to explain why he wasn’t.

“I couldn’t save her,” he says.

“I couldn’t save her either,” you say, pointing to your mother in one of the photos.

“You were just a child,” he says. “It’s not your fault.”

“And, you were just a man,” you say. “It’s not your fault.”

“A grown man.”

“Doing the best that you could.”

And you’re right. He did try his best. He stops arguing not because he’ll ever concede but because the weight of the present falls upon him all at once as he meets your eyes and remembers why you’re here.

He can’t have Sarah back, he can’t have Ellie back, but you’re right in front of him — and he loves you. It’s too late to turn back and kick you out on your first day, it’s too late to never speak to you, it’s too late to not love you.

It’s not too late to fail you like he’s failed everyone else. It’s not too late to do the opposite either.

You tell him your decision, and wait for his disagreement, for him to dissuade you. But, he doesn’t.

“Okay,” he says.

“What are you going to do?”

“I’m going to try my best.”

You cancel the appointment and make the final decision, but it doesn’t feel real until Joel finishes building the crib in the spare bedroom. The most unexpected part is how excited you feel even when you’re nauseous, even when your feet are bloated, even when your back is killing you.

You’re also terrified, particularly when you hear Maria’s account of her labor and delivery. For someone describing how painful it was, she seems oddly unfazed, happy even. She’s too focused on her baby boy, and you get it — he is pretty cute.

When the day comes, you find that you’ve underestimated the pain entirely. The wounds you’ve gotten in combat are nothing compared to this. Every hour that goes by feels like a full day for you. Every time the doctor checks your dilation it’s still not yet time.

Until it is. And everything becomes a million times more chaotic. You swear the only thing keeping you sane is Joel’s hand in yours. (You have to apologize later for squeezing it so tightly.)

Finally, the telltale cry comes, and it feels like you’ve run a marathon by how exhausted you are and by how proud you are of yourself for doing it. This will go down as the greatest feat of your life and you are more than satisfied with that fact.

The doctor announces that it’s a boy and though he said he’d be fine with either gender, Joel’s smile is wider than you’ve ever seen it. You’re smiling almost as big. It hurts your cheek muscles but you can’t stop, especially when they hand you your baby boy. Though he doesn’t know how to speak, his hand wrapped around your finger tells you that it’s going to be okay.

There is so much pain in this world, but not in this room.

#joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #joel miller smut #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller fic #joel x reader #tlou fanfiction

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kierahn · 2 months ago

Text

FUELED BY HATE. [ academic rival x m ! reader ]

summary : you were the best in your entire batch while he stays in second place. nick initially thought that the rivalry between you and him would end after graduating, but it seemed like fate had other plans. you recently joined his workplace and stole his spotlight once more. after years of being overshadowed, nick has had enough and decided to finally put you in your place; below him, right where you belonged.

content warning : blackmail ✧; character despises reader ✧; non/dubcon nsfw ✧; cigarette burns ✧; degradation

masterlist !

✩ i’m so sorry for disappearing for almost a year ! i recently started my first year of college, and things have been hectic for me so far. i'll try writing more often now that I've adjusted better :] ✩ this is a draft i left before i disappeared. i decided to refine it before working on newer stuff. ✩ i've also decided to clear out all the requests on my inbox since i want a fresh start. with that, my inbox is open for requests ! (still selective of what i'll write) ──★ ˙ ̟🪿 !!

➷ nick cromwell was a man who excelled in his studies. from the first day he entered the military academy, nick already knew that he was gifted. this easily earned him respect and admiration from the people around him.

but despite his decent reputation and academic performance, nick's name lingered solely in second place throughout the years, never surpassing the name above his.

➷ dark eyes glued themselves on the name tag that was sewn on the right side of your newly tailored uniform; y/n l/n, it read. seeing your name never failed to sour his mood.

you had joined his department just a couple of months ago, yet you rose to the top with ease and easily surpassed him once more. barely a month in, and you already managed to solve a missing person case that had long gone cold. it was a huge feat that set you on a path towards a promising promotion. one that nick highly sought after years of working his ass off.

➷ nick averted his gaze away from your form, a pang of irritation hitting him. he hated you— your voice, your presence, everything. he hated how you were better than him in every aspect.

you were always surrounded by your co-workers who depended on you for help despite being new. everyone seemed to look at you with stars in their eyes, filled with admiration. everyone except nick.

➷ the first day you joined his department, nick slipped out of the bustling room with a box of cigarettes in his hand. he placed one stick in between his lips while his other hand searched for his lighter only to find that it was missing. he brushed his dark locks back with an annoyed sigh. great.

just as nick turned to head back inside, a lighter greeted him out of nowhere, sparking to life and lighting his unlit cigarette. the sudden gesture made his heart skip a beat out of shock, but he was grateful for it nonetheless. nick took a deep drag of the now lit cigarette, directing his gaze to thank the owner of the lighter.

his expression hardened. y/n.

"cromwell," nick watched as you placed your lighter back inside your pocket. he stared, not bothering to hide his displeased expression.

did you remember him from military academy ? that's impossible, you were in different classes and had never crossed paths before. he doubted you knew about his existence.

after a long pause, nick exhaled a puff of smoke, deciding to snap out of his trance. holding the cigarette between his fingers, he returned the greeting. "l/n."

that was his first interaction with you after all those years. a face to finally match the name that had long stirred his competitive spirit.

➷ your feats only kept getting more and more impressive as time went on, and the sight of your constant success ignited something within nick. he knew he had to humble you, to remind you of your place. nick worked his ass off trying to get where he was, it wasn’t fair of you to take that away from him.

he had to be better than you this time even if he had to go the extra mile to ruin you.

he considered a couple of extreme measures: framing you for murder, planting drugs in your desk, or any other nefarious scheme that could tie you to wrongdoing. but, it wasn't enough for him to see you behind bars. that wasn't what he aimed for. he needed to completely ruin you— humiliate you so you wouldn’t dare to step out of line ever again.

it only took him a few drinks between 'friends' to have you all putty in his hands. he didn't expect you to be such a lightweight, but it was convenient for him to set his plan in motion. it wasn't an easy task dragging you around in your drunken state, but nick was satisfied with his work.

you were fully stripped of your uniform, both hands cuffed behind your back, black leather wrapped around your eyes, and a cloth between your lips to muffle whatever sound you were bound to make.

a tripod sat at the edge of the bed, a camera set up to capture your vulnerable state. all he had to do was take a picture and finish up, but that idea didn’t seem to satisfy him. it wouldn't be enough to make up for the years that you have overshadowed him.

nick monitored your unconscious form from across the dimly lit room. the cigarette that sat between his lips illuminated the lower half of his face, dark eyes reflecting the light of the burning cigarette. rising from the wooden chair he had nested himself in, nick stalked towards the bed where you laid unconscious. he placed his cigarette on an ash tray sitting on top of his bedside table. the camera's light illuminated a crimson red color, indicating that it was recording everything.

nick's gloved hand slowly traced a line down your exposed stomach, feeling you shudder slightly at his touch. your still breathing turned frantic the lower his hand slid down your torso. an unsuspected ghost of a smile crept up on nick’s lips as he watched you react to his touch. there was something about seeing you in such a humiliating position, all vulnerable and helpless.

perhaps this was where you rightfully belonged, below him.

his thumb glossed over your cheek as he stared down to study your sleeping face. now that he had a closer look at you, nick realized how good you actually looked. no wonder people liked you a lot, aside from being reliable, you were also a piece of candy for one’s eye.

his hand unconsciously found itself wrapped around the base of your cock, still soft and limp from the lack of stimulation. even this part of you looked good. he had every right to be jealous.

having initially planned to simply take photos and leave it at that, nick knew he had to improvise. he bent down and coated the tip of your cock with his spit. it helped his gloved hand glide smoothly up and down along your shaft.

your breath hitch in response, and that was when nick knew you were awake and could feel everything.

knowing this, nick quickened his pace, twisting and rubbing with the goal of making you finish in his hand. the gag around your mouth muffled your groans. with the way your cock hardened and twitched in his hand, nick could tell that your body liked his touch.

“who knew you were such a slut,” nick taunted. he noticed how you bit against the gag to suppress your moans, staining the cloth around your mouth with your saliva. “i wonder what our superiors would think if they saw you in this position ?” his other hand ripped the gag from your mouth. he wanted to hear what other noises you could make.

you open your mouth to question who he was, but nick took it as an opportunity to capture your lips in his. he tilted his head to the side to muffle your

this was all to humiliate you, nothing more. he inwardly told himself. but the strained feeling in his pants told a completely different story.

nick groaned as he felt you come undone, staining his hand white with your cum. he pulled away from the kiss, replacing his lips with his fingers as he let you have a taste of yourself. he pinched and pulled at your tongue, stretching the inside of your mouth with his fingers. he coated his fingers with your saliva, dark eyes watching you gag on his fingers.

nick pulled his fingers out of your mouth with a pop and let them hover your rim in a teasing manner. he pushed a finger past the ring of muscles despite your protest, holding you down by straddling your hips as you thrashed around. “shh, you’ll tire yourself out before i can even start.”

the sound of clothes shuffling reached your ears as nick pulled his trousers down with his other hand to free his hardened cock. he could see your chest rise and fall quickly, but you stayed surprisingly compliant. “you’re actually enjoying this, aren’t you ?” nick’s fingers continued to prod at your entrance, teasing you as he rubbed circles with his thumb on your gaping hole. “we can’t have that. you’ll have to beg for it first.”

you gritted your teeth at the thought of begging. there was no way you were going to— nick pushed his thumb inside, making you jolt as your walls clenched around the digit. a sharp groan escaped your lips that were slightly agape as you breathe heavily.

your cock painfully twitched at the lack of sensation. nick wiggled his thumb around inside you, but it still wasn’t enough to stimulate anything. “is that your dick ? pretty small for all that big talk.”

you decided to bite back and insult him. you weren’t going to beg for anything any time soon, instead, you would taunt him into doing what you wanted. hearing the male simply chuckle at your insult, nick pulled his thumb out of your hole and replaced it with his cock, its tip kissing your entrance. “you’re really asking for it. i knew you were a filthy whore underneath that professional bullshit you keep pulling on everyone.”

without warning, nick slammed himself inside. he groaned at the sudden tightness, hands holding you in place, a bruising grip on your hips. “shit, can’t you loosen up a bit ? you’re going to chop my dick off,” he growled, a slight rasp in his voice.

your hole swallowed him whole, dragging him deeper inside as he thrusted in and out of your abused hole. it took him a while to set an actual pace because of how your hole clenched tightly around his dick, but you did loosen up after a while. he made a mental note to prepare you properly next time

next time ?

nick pushed those thoughts away. this was a one time thing, he.. fuck.

nick tightened his grip on your hips out of frustration. he almost forgot why he was doing this in the first place, this was all to simply ruin you, nothing more. he reached out to grab his cigarette off the ash tray, placing it between his lips as he dragged one out to calm his nerves. ‘i shouldn’t be enjoying this,’ he inwardly scolded himself.

he exhaled, keeping the cigarette in between his fingers as he placed his palm against your bare stomach. ‘but, holy shit, how can i not enjoy this. his ass is swallowing my dick like it’s his last meal.’ nick grunted.

out of frustration, he dragged the butt of his cigarette against your bare stomach. you hissed at the burning sensation, your muscles tensing as you bit back a scream of pain. nick’s dark eyes examined the burn marks he had left in your skin, no longer feeling remorse. instead, his cock twitched at the sight of your pained expression.

he continued thrusting into you, your moans acting as a positive reinforcement for him to keep going. nick took the cigarette back to his lips, inhaled, and leaned down to slam his lips against yours. it tasted like ash as nick’s tongue intertwined with yours into a sloppy kiss. his pace eventually slowed down as he felt himself near his climax.

you were also close, whining against the kiss as he slammed into you one last time before he unloaded inside of you. he finished first, pulling away from the kiss and giving a few sloppy thrusts in order to help you finish. seeing your cock twitch and spur, nick pressed the cigarette butt against your tip. the pain from the scalding heat helped you finish, your cum putting out the cigarette’s light.

nick threw the cigarette onto the ashtray and pulled out of you, letting his finished work trickle down your thighs. he detached himself from you, removing his dirtied gloves as he approached the camera that continued to capture everything. “this should be enough to keep you in line.” he muttered under his breath as he ended the recording.

nick took the camera with him as he stalked back towards the bed where his finished work laid in display. the sound of a camera shutter reached your ears and a brief flash of light penetrated the blindfold around your eyes. “you look way better under me anyway.”

#yandere x male reader #male reader #yandere male x male reader #yandere x reader #x male reader #yandere #bottom male reader #sub male reader #male reader insert #academic rivals #hate sex #kiahndere

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dilf-docs · 4 months ago

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So Is it Your Place Or Mine?

bfd!joel miller x younger!reader

summary: summer is over, but your affair with joel isn't (or, you grind on joel's belt buckle while sarah is at soccer practice)

warnings: 18+ (minors dni), age gap, smut, p. in v., exhibition kink (sarah is again a victim of this), brat taming (this two are soo into it), degradation kink, praise kink, lwk breeding kink, daddy kink (wow! it's a whole library of alexandria of kinks in here), fingering, dad bod!joel (best joel you mean), angst (oh guys look oh no it's alr starting), dirty talk!!!!! (they're so dirty ew i want it too wait who said that)

word count: 3,701 words

side note: and it became officially a series. hope u all are into this as much as i am because it's my first series ever !!!!! ALSO angst finally makes it way in this mess LET'S GO (i'mcrying i really looked up big texas belt to come up with a mental image in the middle of class, i'm so sorry to whoever sat behind me but idc abt me writing smut while at uni; we die like real men)

part: prev | masterlist | next

"What do you mean you're not coming?"

It's been an unspoken rule that, even if you hate sports and the ball stays ten meters away from you, you always come to Sarah's soccer practice, cheering for her from your usual spot at the benches.

Except today, you aren't there. And now Sarah is calling you when she shouldn't, but that she doesn't know.

"I can't. I have stuff to work on stuff"

Bullshit.

Your laptop and the half-written essay sit untouched at the coffee table. The thing being touched in question, is something entirely different.

"Need help?"

His hands grip any free spot of your glistening skin, sucking on the rosy pink until it turns maroon red.

"I'm at my dorm, sorry"

Double bullshit.

Sarah doesn't even know your car is parked next to her dad's truck. She has about four hours to find out.

"I can drop by later then" she suggests.

His hot breath tingles against your neck as his nose caresses the spot. Bad girl, he mouths, like he wasn't the one who told you to pick up, despite his daughter's name on the caller's ID. You try to reach for a kiss, but his digits press on your hair, pulling you back with violence to forbid your lips from touching his. Bad girl, and your arousal drips with more intensity at the remark. Bad girl.

"No!" the answer comes quick, your voice strained, and Sarah jokes that you should take it easy with your classes, instead of suspecting anything else.

"Fine! I won't go if you don't want me to, but if you show up dead by stress, I'll be free of guilt"

He kisses the outline of your jaw with sloppy movements, like he just wants to busy himself while Sarah blabbers about the practice, and you keep trying to make her stop, but she tells you not to worry, that she's on a break right now, and the task to avoid whimpering at his rough kisses across your neck becomes increasingly difficult. A gasp escapes your lips when his teeth sink into your flesh. Mine, not to be said but to be felt. Seen by the rest. A pretty red that tastes like the blood he craves, the hunger akin to violence. Bad girl, and he's biting your lip to stop any other filthy noises from escaping. What if she hears?

"Are you okay?" concern laced on Sarah's tone. Guilt creeps through the cracks of the worn-out paint of his bedroom, one your friend had practically begged him to restore; the joke of it all was that was about his job yet he couldn't fix his own goddamn house. "Y/n, did you hurt yourself?"

I'm treating you well, ain't I, doll? and then he'd grin against the crook of your neck before looking at you, his dark blown-wide pupils gazing at you with a hunger you didn't think it was possible. They'd burn, and the fire didn't scare you: it was the warm your cold body needed. Tell Sarah her daddy ain't hurting her slut of a friend.

"I-I'm fine" you manage to choke out. Good girl.

Joel's lids feel heavy as a crown. But you like 'em rough, don't 'cha, baby?

"Should I worry?"

Joel pulls harder, your scalp burning at the harsh tug. Answer when I ask. You breathe in heavily, and Sarah keeps on asking you if you're okay, threatening to burst through a dorm door she'll find empty.

"N-no" you meekly answer, and he laughs at your demeanor. Under his weight, pinned down on the mattress, there's nowhere to run to.

"Is it okay if I-"

"Sarah I need to hang, okay? My head hurts. Bye" it all comes down in a rush, the words a vomit of excuses. You make sure the call has ended, and so does Joel, that in an act of mercy, has stopped. You both look the screen until the lockscreen is back up again, a picture of you and Sarah. Despite used to having his weight on top of you, your throat feels constricted.

"Do you want to traumatize your daughter, Mr. Miller?"

He's back at his task of kissing, making you moan and writhe at the sensitivity of your kissed and bit skin during the last hour. You hate how he takes his time―edging you; unbearable.

"What I want is you"

The lie comes out effortlessly from his teeth. He wants you, needs you, but does he really want you? His daughter's best friend, the college girl he was going to lecture just last summer―to live life and forget about him, yet couldn't. He lies to himself, saying he didn't because you felt asleep, but feeling a warm body next to him, being your beautiful frame of all people, made it hard.

The way he makes a moaning mess out of you, how he knows every spot of your body no one had been able to please before, how your cunt stretches perfectly around his cock, how you call his name like no one else had done. It belongs to you now, and this is a vice.

It's like he's got a wound, and you're the only balm that can soothe the pain. But the effect is temporary, and after you leave, he always finds himself wanting more.

The doubt on his eyes has your heart beating out of fear.

"Then have me, Mr. Miller" you dare.

When Joel smiles, barely noticeable, something flutters in your stomach.

"Al'ight, impatient one. We have sum hours until Sarah's back. Spread" his hand nudges your thighs apart, and you oblige, making Joel chuckle at your obedience. "Good girl, baby. S'good f'r me"

You let out a gentle moan at the praise, and he smirks at your reaction.

"Feelin' desperate, are we?" he taunts, seeing your pretty lips parted and face flushed, a whine escaping them.

"Shut the fuck up and just kiss me already" you beg, pussy throbbing painfully.

"Damn brat" he hisses, "ain't you such'a needy greedy slut?" his finger hooks on your panties, tugging you closer into him, your body rising to clash against his softer frame that has nothing to do with his rough demeanor. You can feel the bulge that has formed through his pants, making you moan in delight.

"Sorry, daddy. I'll be a good girl" you squirm under his weight, pouting lips and batting eyelashes. "Please, kiss me. Pretty please, daddy"

"Jus' cus you asked well" but he knows it's an excuse to capture your sweet lips until he's tasted all of you. You once heard old men kiss like they want to devour every inch of your mouth, to make space for their tongue like it's going to live in there, and they were right.

He pulls away from the kiss to pull out his shirt, revealing his soft body. Your hands itch, immediatly reaching for it with wandering fingers. He chuckles at the eagerness, but then he catches the subtle adoration in your eyes, and his breath hitches, heart stopping.

"What's wrong?" you look up, and it's gone. Maybe he imagined it.

Joel doesn't know why he feels dissapointed by it.

He tries to push the thoughts back, head diving down between your breasts, leaving sloppy kisses and messy trails of saliva with his tongue on each one. He gives a special lick to your hardened nipples, making you squirm.

"Gonna bend y'r fuckin' sexy little body on this sheets. Gonna make you cum all'over, until y'r scent is'mpregnated on 'em"

You groan at his words, fingers pulling down the pajama shorts you brought over, revealing your pretty black laced lingerine.

"Fuck, baby. You wore 'em for me?" he's asking, and you'd be crazy if you think the tone reveals devotion. Is Joel even capable of warmth?

He leaves a new trail of kisses, this time, running from your neck to your stomach.

"Gonna make you scream my name 'til that's the only thin' you know how to say" his hot breath tingles over your abdomen. He buries his face in there, the mustache and scruffy graying hair tickling the skin. "Gon' give you such'a load, this flat stomach of yours will be bustin' with my seed"

You whine at his filthy words, mouth agape slightly. He looks at your soaked panties, arousal on clear display now. Joel's cock twitches in the confines of his jeans.

He lets out a low growl. "Look at you, such'a slut for me. Drippin' wet like a fuckin' whore and desperate, when I ain't even touch you"

To prove so, Joel teasingly runs his fingers along your inner thigh, dangerously close to your soaking core.

He pulls your underwear down, taking them off.

"M'gonna fuck you real good, baby" his fingers dig on your thighs for support, the burning sensation of his calloused digits on your soft skin delicious. "Gon' take care of what's mine"

Mine.

The words ring loud and clear. The only other noise to be heard is his lips leaving wet sounds against your thighs. Does Joel even realize what he said? Or was it in the heat of the moment?

No, wait. Stop. Why do you care?

He begins to rub circles in your clit, coating his fingers in your dripping arousal, prodding the tense needy hole, making you moan in desperation.

"Please, daddy" your lips cry as you beg for him to do anything to remove the pain in between your legs.

"Please, what?" Joel teases, voice raspy. He keeps prodding your center, his digits in and out in a gentle manner, contrasting his hard hold on your thigh. You squirm and whine at the sensation, but maybe it's the dark on his eyes that's really responsable for making you shrink under his gaze. "Think 'm doin' this for ya'? To please ya'? No, baby" he tuts, "you were a bad girl. Almost got caught"

"If you didn't make me answer" you seethe, a moan almost escaping your lips when his fingers hit that sweet spot of yours. "Maybe if you didn't, she wouldn't-"

Joel removed his fingers from you, and you reduce to a moaning mess, begging for the release you were chasing and now it's lost.

"But you wanted'er to know, didn't ya'?" he unbuckles his belt and fumbles with his worn-out jeans, revealing a barely concealed neediness on his side. "Wanted'er to know where 'er slut of a friend was: at daddy's house, beggin' for his dick like a cockhungry slut"

"I-I want it. Want you dick" you barely choke out, lips parted at the sight of his pulsating dick's silhouette under his brief.

"Then take it, hungry one"

His tip buries deeply into your cunt before you even speak again, sliding inside in one swift motion. You gasp, as he fills you up completely, because despite the way your cunt stretches for him, or the way you have had his dick and need it, his girth never fails to amaze you.

"D-daddy" you moan, walls stretching to accommodate his size. Your sweet arousal drips down your thighs, coating Joel's balls. Fuck, doesn't he love to see you squirming under him. He's never had a woman like you before, wrapped around his finger. You may be a girl, but God, you feel so much better around his dick than anyone else: your cunt tenses around his cock deliciously, his dick twitching when he takes a look at your legs shaking and fucked out state.

"That's it, pretty girl. Beg for'it"

His words go straight to your core as you moan. "Please. Let me take all of you, Joel, please"

You said his name. Fuck. He shouldn't be this aroused, but the way you say it like that's the only thing you know, like it means something more, it makes his dick throb and heart sting. That he, Joel Miller, old bitter man, single dad, could mean more to a young pretty girl like you.

"Fuck" he grunts, grabbing a handful of your hair as he begins to pull out slowly, plunging inside of you with harsh movements. The sound of skin clapping is obscene as he begins to fuck you mercilessly. "Ain't you a noisy lil' thing, huh? You like that, baby? You like it rough?"

Your voice comes out shaky. "Y-yes, daddy. F-fuck, just like that. I like it a l-lot"

"Good girl" he grins satisfied with your respone, his thrusts getting rougher and messier. "Lookin' s'pretty with my dick's inside of you"

Joel changes angles without telling you, brushing your g-spot. A noise so loud and vulgar comes out of your parted lips, and you feel ashamed.

But then he's brushing a strand of hair from your face, with a delicacy you've seen reserved for his daughter only. It feels weird, and you try that it doesn't distract you from your looming orgasm.

"Joel..." you breath out his name.

"Yes?" with everything coming out of his mouth: possesiveness, neediness, pleasure. Like he'd give you the world if you just ask, despite telling himself he wouldn't.

"K-keep going"

Your gaze bores into his eyes with an intensity that almost makes him stop. Because the words are simple, but Joel's been alive enough on this Earth to know it doesn't mean just that.

Keep going. Don't stop. Don't end this. Don't let me go.

"Whatever m'princess asks if she asks 'em nice"

You scream in pleasure as his thrusts become deeper, his balls slapping against your cunt, as your slick begins to run down your thighs. Joel thinks he's going crazy at the way your folds take him, how tight you feel, and the loud noises you make, begging him to fuck you harder, to use you. Every thrust pushes you closer to the edge, writhing under his touch as you begin to see stars.

"You close, aren't ya'?" he laughs, but it's devoid of mockery. A subtle softness hides behind them. Ask nicely, and I shall give. "Gon' cream 'round my dick like a good girl, right?"

His digits dig in the flesh of your hips, guiding himself to fuck you harder, for you to take him better, caging your body under the sheets, pushing you even closer to your orgasm. You mewl loudly, tears in the corner of your eyes at the delicious burn.

If you told yourself a year ago you'd be crying over Joel Miller's dick, of all people, you'd probably laugh. But no college boys had been able to please you, less bring you to tears as you reach your orgasm. This is heaven, and you aren't ready to say goodbye to the paradise you found in summer just yet.

Your core tenses around him, body so close to finishing, hair a mess, eyes brimming with tears, and lips spilling the filthiest sounds ever heard to humankind. It's heaven, and Joel isn't ready to give it up just yet. Your pussy throbs, and as your juices mix as one, you roll your eyes and head back, your high approaching, knot in your stomach tightening faster. Before you can register, your mind goes blank and you're seeing stars.

You come around his cock, coating it in your arousal as Joel admires how you cream his member, tight walls almost pushing him out of you. He groans at your simmering cries, some tears coming out of your eyes.

"What'e fuckin' slut, baby. You sure are somethin' else" he chuckles, his thrusts messier by his own high approaching. "Wait for me, yeah, baby?"

You humm, as he buries deep into you, filling you up completely, as his hips stop their harsh movements when he feels the tension in his abdomen release.

"Fuckin' sweet" he uses a finger to clean some of the slick that's run down your leg. "Good girl"

He licks them off in an obscene display, making sure to never break contact.

"If you keep doing that, I'm gonna become a real bad girl" you taunt.

Then he pulls out of you carefully, doing his best not to spill too much of his load from your cunt. He grabs one of the corners of his sheets, cleaning some of his seed from your thighs. Joel should be careful, but all his foggy mind can muster is you being his in every way he can. Making you his. Mine. Mine. Mine. You plead him not to do that, but he argues laundry day is soon and he likes it better when it smells like you anyway. You confess with a cute light blush in your cheeks that you do the same when he comes over to fuck you in your dorm, sleeping better when the covers smell like him. He shouldn't feel like this: like it could be. But he allows himself to, even for an instant.

"Oh, yeah?" he pants, "what you gon' do?"

Your eyes travel to his jeans and untied buckle he hadn't wasted time taking off, rather just pulling them down.

"I have something in mind..." you wander off, remembering filthy thoughts of your first night together, how you briefly thought about it. "I-" you cut off, blushing furiously.

"Yes?" he holds your chin tightly, forcing you to look at him as his rough fingers press on the skin. "Remember what I told ya', baby? To ask nicely? 'Cause you said you'd be a good girl, so be one and tell daddy what'd ya' want"

You gulp, trying to hold his gaze. You never back down. You never back down. But the intensity of the shinning copper makes that insufferable character of yours to be tamed, boiling against the surface but just scratching, all screams lost. Is like he knows this power over you, acting on it with a benevolence so sick, it has you thinking loving Joel Miller isn't impossible.

You never back down, but being with Joel feels like walking over stones, always thinking about the next step and the ones that were, ghosts of the lingering doubts and afterthoughts behind every step you take. It's like there's a river below them, washing away regret.

But you're still here: water up your knees then and now over your head.

You're barely floating. You'd be willing to drown anyway.

"I want to ride your belt buckle"

There's silence in the other side, until its met with a light chuckle.

"Yeah?" Joel keeps on laughing, his eyebrows raised in disbelief. "S'that what that filthy head of yours be thinkin' on?"

"Stop it" you groan, covering your hot face with your palms. You wish you could erase that ugly smirk off his face. "I'm never telling you anything again, ever"

"Now c'mon, baby. I was jus' messin' 'round" his tone adquires a soft edge to it, tender warm hands removing yours from your face. "Don't cover your face, baby. You're too goddam pretty" you blush, and Joel better resist the urge to kiss you just for the sake of kissing you. "I didn't mean to make fun of ya'. You know y'can tell me anythin' that's goin' inside that head of yours"

"Then you'll let me?" your pretty eyes look up to him, shinning like the stars of the summer night sky months ago.

He can't deny you anything, and a small crack of fear wounds his impenetrable heart.

"Get'ere you filthy slut"

You eagerly climb onto his lap as he sits against the beds headboard, your thighs pushing against his belly.

"Now" he tries to put in a more comfortable position, his tired joints creaking. He avoids your gaze, coughing over his blush. "You do all the job, baby. I ain't gonna help you, this greedy pussy took all of my energy"

You giggle, moving until your bare pussy clashes against the cold. A shiver runs down your spine, the dried juices moistening again over the metal piece. His hands move to your hips, hands now soft as they hold you, and he seems unsure of it, both of your breaths coming out ragged.

"You said you weren't gonna help" you chuckle, wrapping your arms around his neck. His face feels closer, and you can see lines time has marked across his features. "But thanks, daddy"

His heart takes a dangerous leap.

"'Course, baby" he smiles. "You know I spoil ya' too damn much"

You begin to roll your hips, sliding your pussy over the cold material, your arousal making a wet slick sound that bounces off the walls, a shiver down your back as you feel your slick already coating the front of it and the top of his jeans.

"Mmm, can't say no to me, can you, baby?" you mock, rocking your hips back and forth. A shaky breath escapes your parted lips, and Joel feels his renovated dick spring hard. You moan, your ass barely touching his now tense member.

"Quit runnin' that mouth of y'rs, baby" his digits dig on your skin, "or I'll bend ya' over again"

"Sorry, daddy" you feel the metal star on the middle digging inside your pussy, the borders of the imprint brushing your leaking cunt in a pleasant way. "I promise to be good"

"Do" he grunts, "you're runnin' out of time, doll"

You close your eyes, movements more quick and erratic, little moans leaving your body as you groan.

"Tell me how this lil' experiment of yours feelin', baby"

"F-feels good, daddy. Fuck" you groan, lifting your hips a bit as you grind yourself down across the material. "So so good, daddy. Thank you, daddy"

"Mmm, that's right. Now be a good girl and come for me. Let me see that pretty face of yours when ya' come over ma' belt"

You let out a shaky breath, juices spilling over his jeans even as you see stars. He chuckles, enamoured at the sight.

"You gonna need help with that?" you point out his boner.

Oh, aren't you a doll? So kind-hearted.

"That's okay" he breathes out, tiredly. He thinks of the next trip to the bathroom, the image of what he'll fuck himself to clear now.

You smile at him, for the first time forgetting this started as a blowing-off-steam-time or transaction.

For a moment, it feels like it could be.

"Jus' seein' you cum all over me so prettily is'nough, baby"

credits: divider @kodaswrld / gif @loregifs

#dilfistwrites #pedro pascal #pedro pascal x reader #pedro pascal x you #joel miller #joel miller tlou #joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller fic #joel miller smut #joel miller angst #bfd!joel miller #bfd!joel #tlou #tlou fanfiction #to the devil i know series

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fics-lovebot · 3 months ago

Text

jujutsu kaisen fic recs pt. 3

main masterlist - jjk fic recs pt. 1 - jjk fic recs pt. 2

· · ♡ · · tysm to the amazing creative minds of the writers for giving me sevaral moments of joy reading your creations

these are my personal favs, so pls reblog if you like any of my recs❤️

yuji finds out gojo has a family - ( @kingkonoha ) fluff, lowkey angst, hubby!gojo, dad!gojo, so,,, this made me cry, i love yuji sm he deserves the world :( this is part two and it also made me crY MY MF EYES OUT :))))))))

can´t stop drinking - ( @kingkonoha ) ANGST, death, blood, dad!gojo, husband!gojo, mentions of wanting to die, a curse kills you and your son allegedly but in reality the elders had lied to him all these years, part 2 made me fucking crying

lambent - ( @xo2dee ) kinda fluffy, true form!sukuna, pregnant!reader, heian era customs, hubby!sukuna, a lil cannibalism, THIS NEEDs A KDRAMA

paparazzi´s pov - ( @rayveneyed ) fluff, award winning actor!sukuna, singer!oc, he likes messing around with supermodels but then the both of them meet at a fashion show, next thing you know oc got an anklet with his initials in garnet AÑDLJSÑFDLJ i really like this, would love to see a longer version

mangoes - ( @sttoru ) fluff, pregnant!reader, hubby!sukuna, tru form!sukuna, SOOO CUTEE, this acc had me giggling and kicking my feet

nanami drabbles - ( @sugurizz ) pwp, pls yall readdd part 2 and part 3, its crazyy

fifteen minutes - ( @roseglazedlens ) nanami smut. “Say that again. Louder. Can’t hear shit with the sound of my dick slapping into your cunt.” that´s all I have to say, your honor

protective - (@kingkonoha ) headcanon, hubby!kento, my man my man my man my man i love thissss

the horniest - ( @arminsumi ) gojo smut, ITS SO GOOOOOOOOOODDDDDD, he´s horny af, pussy drunk, obsessed, borderline crazy for that wap

phone calls - ( @kingkonoha ) slice of life, hubby!gojo, dilf!gojo, his wife and his daughter are his only priority, this is so sdkfjskdjfh :´( i love it

jock bf!yuuji - ( @tteokdoroki ) smut, fluff, all-star jock!yuuji, weird gf!reader, college au. one thing about me, i LOVE jock!yuuji. READ THIS AS WELL PLEASSEE

In denial - ( @rosesaints ) smut, sub!yuuta, "he doesn’t believe that it’s real until you’re actually sinking down onto his cock" period.

protective hubby - ( @slttygeto ) teacher!suguru, pregnant wife oc, it´s cutee

focus - ( @arminsumi ) suggestive, flirty!geto, tutor!geto, “you’re doing so good for me… keep going.” I HATE ITTTTT, i would fold like a mf lawn chair bitch OOF

wap - ( @tonycries ) smut, going in raw for the first time. i caNNOT EVEN BEGIN TO DESCRIBE HOW GOOD THIS IS JUST PLEASEEE GO READ IT

warm heart pastry - ( @cckaisen ) text, fluff, crack, first of all,,, i love yuji, second of all satoru REALLY needs help, and third of all WHY IS INUMAKI ALWAYS ON SOME SHIT??? lmaooooo

love struck - ( @xxsabitoxx ) fluffy, ex-fuckboy!satoru, he´s experiencing love for the first time :((((( IT´S SO CUTEEEEEEEEEE

love dumb - ( @arminsumi ) gojo fluff, blurb, you make him lose his composure, can´t even focus bc you´re over there existing, someone should make a longer version of this! so good

will always be yours - ( @nezuscribe ) smut, fluff, so basically toji only does rough sex, doggy style being his fav, but when it comes to you he prefers the loving-face to face-intense eye contanct type of sex (more like love making) bc being with you makes him feel ten different emotions at once :) DÑFLJSLDFJ

ridin dirty?! - ( @screampied ) smut, mechanic!toji, the beggining had me giggling and blushing sdlfhlsjh, he´s too fucking cocky lmao, writing his number on her asscheeks and stuff

losing his mind - ( @daisynik7 ) smut, dom!reader, hubby!kento, sub!kento, overstimulation, multiple orgasms, WHEEEEEEEEW, 10000/10, now this is new

his protégé - ( @augustinewrites ) fluff, slice of life, fiancé!kento, dinner time with yuuji, it´s so wholesome :´)

insecure bully!gojo - ( @saetoru ) angst, lil fluff, he´s a bully and he´s in love, but its not enough. part 2

best of the best - ( @saetoru ) smut, fwb! satoru, big sHIT talker omg, he lit asks you to be his gf wHILE he´s making you cum,,,,,best bf ever tho

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gloomwitchwrites · 1 year ago

Note

You introduce your husband as your "boyfriend" to annoy them.

Anon! This prompt has me screaming! I really enjoyed writing for this one because it's such a fun idea. Sure, our 141 boys might be a little mad that they aren't being called by their proper title, but you know they'll just love punishing you for it.

I went a little different with this one. Instead of introductions, I made it so that reader is constantly referring to them as "boyfriend" in public settings. Depending on the situation, introductions wouldn't make sense if it was with friends, family, or coworkers because they would likely already know that they're "husband" and not "boyfriend." So i changed it up a bit in that way!

Some of these fall into spicy territory without being descriptive.

For the masterlist and how to submit your own request, click HERE

Content & Warnings (per the warnings MDNI): canon-typical swearing, suggestive themes, non-descriptive mentions of sex, fade to black, brief dirty talk

ao3 // taglist // main masterlist // imagines & what if series masterlist

Simon "Ghost" Riley

Simon shakes his head and you roll your eyes.

“We can ask someone for help,” you suggest, scanning the massive wall of televisions.

Simon grunts and crosses his arms. “No.”

Sometimes Simon’s stubbornness is cute—even sexy—but right now you’re just annoyed with him. It makes you want to stir up trouble, to cause a little chaos just for the fun of it. Pouting, you turn, eyes narrowing to find an associate of the electronics store. When you spot one near the HDMI cables, you take off, not caring if Simon follows.

“Excuse me.”

The man’s head perks up. “How can I help you?”

You gesture behind you, your hand smacking into Simon’s chest. “My boyfriend—”

“Boyfriend?” growls Simon, but you ignore him.

“—can’t decide on a television.”

Simon is not your boyfriend. He’s your husband. But he’s being stubborn, not making a decision, and you want out of this store.

Shifting, you place one hand on Simon’s large bicep, grinning like you haven’t done anything at all. Simon’s hand immediately grabs your ass, squeezing hard. A warning. One that you ignore.

“I can help with that,” replies the associate. You glance at the man’s nametag. Jim.

“Thank you so much, Jim.” You lean against Simon, giving Jim your best smile. “Getting this guy to commit to anything is so hard sometimes, ya know?”

Jim makes a noncommittal noise as he walks toward the wall of televisions. You start to follow but Simon’s hold on your ass tightens, keeping you pressed against him. Simon leans down, his lips brushing against your ear.

“What are you doing?” he whispers.

You elbow Simon in the side but it’s not hard. He lets go, keeping close to you as the two of you follow Jim over to the televisions. Standing back, you watch with glee as Simon is forced to talk to Jim. You stay out of it, but notice Simon’s gaze switching to you every so often.

You already know what he’s thinking. He’ll likely want to punish you, and sometimes those punishments are so sweet.

Once Simon selects something and the two of you are at the car, there is no safety net. Simon shuts the trunk and then you’re pressed against the car, your body trapped between it and Simon’s massive form.

“Boyfriend?” he accuses.

You shrug. “What do you mean?”

The growl in Simon’s throat comes out a groan. “Get in the car.” He lightly slaps your ass as you open the passenger door.

As you start to slide in, Simon’s hand returns, this time slipping under your skirt to find your thin, lace underwear. He tugs sharply, ripping the fabric.

“Simon!”

He stuffs the underwear into his pocket. “You don’t need these.” You feel your face growing hot.

Simon shuts your car door and walks around the driver’s side, hopping in. He reaches out, placing one large hand on your bare thigh. It roams upward, squeezing, sending a shiver of lust up your body to make your head spin. “When we get home, I’m fucking that boyfriend nonsense right out of you.”

Kyle "Gaz" Garrick

“I’m so sorry, but this isn’t what my boyfriend ordered.”

Kyle frowns and glances up from his phone’s screen. That’s your voice he hears, but the term of address isn’t right.

Boyfriend. Not husband, as it fucking should be.

Kyle glances in your direction but you’re not looking at him. You’re smiling sweetly at the barista behind the counter.

“It should be hot. Not iced. I might have messed up. I’m so sorry. I can pay for another.” You raise your hands in a placating gesture but the barista doesn’t appear fazed at all.

“No biggie. Keep that one. Won’t take me more than a minute or two.”

“Thank you so much.” You glance at Kyle, and your smirk tells him all he needs to know.

You’re being a tease. You’re doing this on purpose. The drink order is wrong, and you’re using this as an excuse to poke at him.

Kyle locks his phone and casually slides it into his pocket. Do you think you’re going to annoy him by doing this? Maybe. The little smirk on your face tells him that’s entirely what you have in mind.

But the joke is on you. Doesn’t matter if you refer to him as “boyfriend,” because all it’ll earn you is a punishment.

As the barista slides the new drink across the counter to you, you thank them profusely. “Thank you so much. My boyfriend will really appreciate it.”

The barista only nods and turns back to the espresso machine.

As you approach with the coffee, Kyle gentle removes the drink from your grasp.

“Boyfriend?” he asks, amused.

You shake your head like you have no idea what he’s on about. “What?”

Kyle laughs and snags the other drink from your hand. With shock on your face, he strides up to the counter. “Can you set these aside for us? Be right back.”

They only nod and continue working. Kyle snags your wrist and drags you to the little hallway that curves out around. There are a few private corners in there, and the hallway itself opens up into the nearby bookstore.

Kyle checks the handle on the unisex bathroom. Finding it unlocked, he draws you inside.

“Kyle,” you hiss, but he’s not having any of it.

Kyle engages the lock and presses you up against the door.

“You owe me an apology,” he says.

“For what?” Kyle tuts, his hand sliding to the back of your neck. “Get on your knees,” he murmurs, undoing his belt buckle with the other hand. “Apologize with that gorgeous mouth of yours.”

John Price

John leans back in his chair, agitation irritating his spine.

House hunting isn’t something he’s particularly excited about. He is happy that it’s with you, his wife, but the tediousness of it all is exhausting to him. John would rather have you select a few places to tour and then be done with it all. Money isn’t the issue. He just wants you to find a place you like and the two of you can go from there.

He’d live in a tent if that’s what you want.

“My boyfriend isn’t all that picky.”

Boyfriend? John is tugged from his inner musings by your voice and that term of address. Boyfriend. Why the fuck would you call him that? John isn’t your boyfriend. He’s your goddamn husband.

You reach out, planting a hand on his thigh. You squeeze softly as you always do when you’re trying to reassure him, but John frowns down at it, and then looks up at you. You’re not looking at him. You’re staring at the realtor, completely ignoring him.

John licks his lips, considering whether to correct you or not, or leaving it up to a simple mistake, but you do it again.

This time, John didn’t mishear you.

Your hand squeezes his thigh again and Price rests his hand over yours. His fingers enclose your palm and he holds firm. You glance at him and John shoots you his best warning look. You don’t even react. Don’t event blink.

No. He’s going to correct you. He is absolutely fucking correcting you.

The realtor pivots the computer monitor. “I think any boyfriend would agree that these are excellent selections.”

That’s fucking it.

Price shoots up from his seat, keeping a tight grip on your hand. “I need to speak with my—” John pauses, swallowing down his annoyance. “Girlfriend. Privately.”

The realtor shrugs, smiling, but John is already turning around, dragging you out the door. Outside, the stuffy, summer air does nothing to soothe his annoyance.

“Boyfriend? Fucking boyfriend?” John crosses his arms over his chest, looming over you.

You shrug. “What’s the problem?”

“Behave yourself,” he says, lowering his voice.

“Or what?” you ask in mock innocence.

So, this is what you want. John understands the moment the words leave your mouth. You’re fucking teasing him. Fine. He’ll make you learn.

“We are gonna go back in, thank the kind woman for her time, and then we’re leaving.”

“No. I want to stay.”

John leans in but he notices the way you glance away from him and back, clearly flustered. “Good girls don’t play games.”

“Funny,” you reply, head tilting slightly. “That as my boyfriend you have any authority over me.”

John pivots, blocking the view of the front door from you. “I will bend you over that bench so fast, wife.”

“You won’t,” you stammer.

John arches an eyebrow and you visibly swallow. “Want to test me?”

You pout, and then playfully shove him in the chest. “You’re terrible.”

As you turn for the door, John grabs your waist pulling you close. “You started it.”

John "Soap" MacTavish

“My boyfriend and I are redesigning our bathroom.”

Johnny’s attention splits. The associate showing him floor tiles is a distant thing. He might be talking about the newest ones on the market, but Johnny is no longer interested.

Did he just hear you right? Did you just call him boyfriend?

“That’s wonderful,” comes a reply, and Johnny notes an older woman talking to you near the laminate flooring that mimics wood. “Where is he?”

“Over there,” you wave at him, a smug smile on your face.

Boyfriend? Johnny is your fucking husband.

“Sir?” prompts the hardware store associate. “What do you think of these?”

Johnny grunts. “Fine. We’ll come back.” He waves the man off and starts for you even as you continuously refer to him as your boyfriend.

You’re doing it on purpose. You’re doing it to annoy him.

And it’s fucking working.

Johnny saddles up beside you, snaking his arm around your waist, pulling you taut against him.

“This is the boyfriend,” you begin, smiling.

“Husband,” corrects Johnny, flashing the same devious grin. He holds up his left hand, showing off the simple gold band. “Happily married to this one.”

The older woman’s eyes round.

“She likes to joke,” continues Johnny. “Come on, love. Better get home.”

Johnny easily guides you away. He leans down, whispering. “You little terror.”

“Bite me,” you reply.

“Oh. I will. Everywhere. When we get home.”

taglist:

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