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ihopeinevergetsoberr · 5 months ago

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academic rivals request! viktor x fem!reader, nsfw

request: @4-leafed pls... if u have time pls write a viktor x reader that r both geniuses at the academy but very much toe the line of rivalry and sexual tension...i love competitive smart people that fall in love when the rivalry becomes respect ... and they FREAK IT!!! possibly in a lab ! up to you : 3c

i liked this request so much that i ended up writing a decent-ish one-shot….

update: i wrote a part 2 because it was highly requested! you can read it here :)

rating: explicit

word count: 3,5k

warnings: academic rivals. LOTS of dialogue and bickering. dubious science because i skipped it in school, had to do some basic chemistry revision to write this pornographic catastrophe, so please pat me on the back. rough sex? rough… foreplay, that’s for sure. dirty talk, if you can call bickering that. penetration. reader tries to slap viktor, spits in his mouth and he cums in his pants. normally, i only write vanilla stuff, so i have no idea how it turned out THIS kinky (at least for me okay). not proofread (yet). nsfw under the cut:

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“How do you take your coffee?”

His voice betrays the feeble intention of civility, fusing that polite inquiry into a hiss—a phonetic torture you didn’t even know could occur before. So much for killing you with kindness. Outstaging quips by desecrating courtesies.

“I don’t care,” you mutter on autopilot. Can’t let him in on any personal preferences, no matter how insignificant. “Just don’t put arsenic in it.”

Viktor scoffs. Puts the kettle away and peers at you over his shoulder, all wretchedly complacent.

“So the rest of the periodic table is welcome, I presume?”

Viktor. The local Nikola Tesla knock-off. Never a moment of peace with him; and the fierce taste of competition grows coppery in your mouth whenever he’s in your sight—the most handsome trigger of your cheek-biting reflex.

His name is an insult on your lips and you want to taste it. Chew it, crush it with your teeth and spit right out, preferably aiming for those poignant eyes seeking you in every classroom—so eager to light up with objection the second your opinion differs from his.

Always the first prick to disparage your input. A never-resting generator of all the meticulous ways to denounce your projects.

“If I may.”

Sickeningly polite, too. With that lithe finger pointing in the air— so irritatingly comical. He may not, but there isn’t a chance he’ll shut up, now, is there?

And so he’d clear his throat, straightening his tie in that ridiculously solemn fashion. As if stepping on a pedestal to deliver a life-changing speech—not some shallow nitpicking regarding your circuit breakers. All eyes on him while his kept staring only into your soul. Special treatment, if you will.

You will not.

“Using magnetic frames is careless,” he’d state. With his hand imposingly pointing to the blueprint on your slide. “Copper coils may oxidize. Not to mention the overheating. I would use thermoplastics. They’re significantly more efficient. And heat-resistant.”

Oh please. Like someone here gives a shit about what you’d use.

But you can’t say that. Not in a room full of professors. And, judging from the countless nods of approval, the shits were, in fact, being given.

“Too risky,” you oppose. “Thermoplastics often degrade at high temperatures. Electric insulation is not worth the damage of releasing hydrocarbons. I assumed that you’d be aware of that, Viktor. But I suppose that was an omission on my part.”

More nods of approval, now in your favour. Here it goes again—the ever-lasting spectacle of hatred. Elegant, when entertaining the audience. Anything but discreet, in private. A perpetually drawn game of chess. By repetition, not agreement. Both of you refuse to retreat until checkmate.

Oh yes, the sentiment was mutual. You and Viktor were notorious for tearing at each other's throats. The things you’d sacrifice to make that more than a mere metaphor, though. To pull him by that neat tie to sweet asphyxiation and hear him rasp for mercy with eyes full of pathetic condemnation. And he dreamed of that, too. His cane was itching to give you a smack—to paint your behind a plum so deep you’ll have troubles sitting without wincing. When it came to making metaphors literal, he’d pick being the pain in your ass.

However, your mentors couldn’t care less about the rivalry. The Collegiate Inventors Competition was coming up. And who could possibly make better candidates than two greatest minds of the engineering department, with academic excellence so accurately neck and neck that both of your names now occupy the honorary first place in every ranking table?

That’s how you ended up with your sentence—three weeks of after-hours cooperation in the lab with the incorrigible bastard himself, a quarter of which you’d already successfully wasted on pointless bickering. Well, not without achieving some common grounds. The choice of prototype landed on one of your personal ambitions—a wearable exoskeleton for post-surgery rehabilitation, with plenty of robotics involved. Endorsed by Viktor, for once. The greater good must have swallowed even his dispute. Off to a nice start, if someone were to ask you.

However, the first issues struck early: on the very stage of development. Viktor volunteered for modelling: meaning, the framework would be custom, to accommodate his spine specifically. An object lesson for everyone involved, it would seem—but only in an ideal world. Which, considering what you had at hand (acrimony, bitterness, an entire picky bit of gall), was filtered out by default.

Now, five gruesome days and who’s-even-counting-anymore restarts later, you’re nowhere near close to at least a draft, yet borderline keen on murdering each other. And you’re certain the latter is approaching. He did just contemplate putting arsenic in your cup, after all.

Viktor stirs the coffee. Watches his reflection smudge in the dark, whirly water, shooting you an askance glance from beneath thick brows when you start stirring yours—the spoon clanking a tad too loud, as if you were doing it on purpose. Which, you undoubtedly were.

“Stop that,” he groans, almost leaping out of his chair. Heavy, disturbed gaze meets your cheeky simper. “You don’t have to stir it so thoroughly. It’s not like you take it with sugar anyway.”

“Of course.” You shrug. “I don’t drink slop.”

“Oh, I figured. There’s nothing sweet about you, so why would your coffee be any different?”

“There’s plenty of sweetness about me. I simply don’t squander it on entitled pricks.”

That finally grounds him. And you’re giddy for the way his sturdy hand grips the cup so hard that it almost shatters into his palm, knuckles growing pale enough to match the porcelain. More so when you take a loud, languid sip, feigning innocence. Fully wallowing in his darling, defeated speechlessness.

“Excuse you,” he mutters. “Entitled?!”

“So you agree with the ‘prick’ part?”

“Yes, and I take great pride in it. You may mark me flustered.”

“Don’t forget to bust in your pants.”

Viktor sneers: chapped lip twitching, scowl growing defensive. Lanky legs untangle as he rises to his feet, towering above you in an angry lean on his cane—long frame transforming into your personal, scrawny menace, pissed exhale sharp and nasal above your head. And you admit to looking small beneath him—all hunched shoulders, weak smile finally tumbling lopsided.

“Don’t you dare call me entitled,” he demands—and means it. It’s palpable in the way he twists the handle of his cane, the squeaky sound violently scratching your brain. “I sweated blood to achieve my privileges in this establishment.”

You huff, rolling your eyes. “So did I, and yet you keep ordering me around as if I’m some braindead apprentice. We’re counterparts, Viktor. You’re supposed to be mindful of my perspective.”

“I never see you being mindful of mine,” he counters.

And, well. You can’t argue with that.

Your coffee break continued in avoidant silence, but the ambience simply reeked of hostility—stifling enough to make you leave the lab feet first. The deadline’s chokehold besieging your neck wasn’t of any help, either—you had to submit the draft for approval by Sunday. And, so far, you haven’t even agreed on the design plan.

You shoot Viktor a reluctant glance. Pensive, he sat slouched over his parchment, emitting pure peril. Like his shoulder blades might stab you if you attempt a single tap, belligerently peeking through the thin shirt. You tucked your lip under your teeth, chewing hard, tongue running over every small, neurotic wound inside your mouth. Fruitless negotiations held a special spot amongst your least favourite endeavours, but this conundrum called for a desperate measure.

“Viktor.” You winced at how chocked up it came out. He noticed that, too—because of course he did—turning in his chair to nod at you, ever so shit-eatingly. Lancing eyes scrutinised their way up to your face. What an affront.

“Yes?” Always chiding in that condescending tone of his. Hissy ‘s’ echoed in the lab, gnawing at your nerves.

“We have to submit something by the end of this week. Let’s at least decide on the blueprint.”

“Fine.” He shrugged, returning to his sketch. “We’re going with mine.”

“No!” You snapped. “We’re coming up with a new one. Together.”

Viktor hummed in mock consideration. The strand of hair he’s been twirling unraveled, claiming more attention than you deemed him worthy of. Sighing, he lazily reached for your graph, frowning as his eyes started skimming over the scribbles. You made your way to the desk, claiming a spot behind his shoulder. That required a tacit truce.

“You really want to wield… hydraulic actuators?” He winced, looking up at you. Had your breath hitching at that respectful attempt, the effort prominent in the very way he uttered those words—as if struggling to filter out swear ones.

“Yes,” you mustered. “For high power.”

“But they’re so heavy.”

“Well, what would you use?”

He chuckled—rich and malicious. Flipped the page and finally averted those curious eyes, arching a bushy brow.

“I thought no one gave a… crap about what I’d use.”

Oh, well. It felt nice while it lasted.

“How did you even—“

“You ought to be more discreet with your vitriol,” he retorted. “I’ll let you know that I’m a decent lip-reader.”

“Then don’t stare at my mouth next time. What would you use, Viktor?”

Now that left you both startled. His fingers stilled above the diagram, flexing in disbelief, hollow cheeks hued a puzzled rouge as you almost chomped your tongue off, showing an embarrassed curse back into the depth of your throat.

“Ahem. Electric motors,” he chanted, pretending to overlook the slip-up. And for once, you were grateful for his tact.

“I see. Well, er… put that down, please.”

He instantly complied, fetching a pen. Left you to reflect on your misery to the rhythmic sound of his scrawling, pressing a sweaty palm to his forehead.

“Right.” He sighed. “What about the power supply?”

“Rechargeable batteries?” You suggested weakly. “Lithium-ion.”

“Very well. Frame?”

“Something durable. Titanium?”

“Absolutely not,” he scoffed, pushing the notes away. “Why must you always insist on using the heaviest equipment?”

“I don’t know, corrosion resistance?” You muttered back, hovering over him. “Biocompatibility?”

“That’s perfectly manageable with carbon fiber!”

“So it shatters after the tiniest bump? Bravo, Viktor, how ingenious.”

He lurches forward—rigid breath quivering over yours. Close enough to crush that thick skull with your forehead—if only you ventured, that is. But, alas, you’re not as brave just yet. Some brief eye-stabbing is about all you’re good for.

“Fine,” he agrees, pulling away. “We’ll use aluminium alloys. Corrosion resistant and easy to machine. No one wins. Does that suffice?”

“Yes. Now will you finally let me take your measurements for the sketch?”

He doesn’t answer—at least not verbally. Merely stands up and nods to the measuring tape, face still heavily contorted with displeasure. But you don’t oblige just yet. How can you, when Viktor’s fingers suddenly reach for his collar, fumbling with the button? And—oh no—now they’re sliding lower, reiterating once, twice, thrice, until his chest (flushed, but that might just be wishful thinking) is fully peeking out, teasing the smooth scrap of ivory skin.

“What… are you doing?” You mumble, utterly startled.

“…Undressing?” He says matter-of-factly, looking up at you so askance as if you’d just asked him if the sky is blue. One more ministration and the shirt is neatly folded next to the parchment—waiting for you to be through with the measurements to be slid back on his bony shoulders.

“That, I can tell,” you mumble. “Why did you undress?”

Viktor’s gaze daggers into you again. “Don’t tell me you were actually intending to measure me clothed? Can you not comprehend precision?”

“Precision?”

“The prototype is expected to cling to me. I don’t see how that’s achievable with my shirt on— I assumed that was rather obvious.”

“Shut the fuck up.”

“Ah, sweet civility. I even started worrying that other entitled pricks must’ve depleted your decorum, but it seems like you saved some up for me after all. I’m flattered, really—“

You don’t even register when it happens.

Next thing you see is Viktor seizing your wrist—sternly yanking your slap off his face before it gets the chance to land there in a flared handprint. Nothing but pure rage and prickliness—right where his short nails are lancing your skin, engraving an ugly bracelet you’ll wear for hours.

Well, maybe there is something else. Something inexplicable, and tremendous—deep in the way your eyes keep drifting south—where his pants sling low on defined hips, and the pretty trail of dark hair runs from navel to waistband—no doubt circling exactly what you manage to make out in the convex slope of his crotch. And you want to slap him for that, too—sonorous, and frenetic. Going in again with full force, but his force always turns out to be fuller—and in an instance he firmly twists your arm, pinning it behind your back—pale face barely five inches away from your flushed one.

What happens next is beyond any explanations. Later, he’ll blame it on inertia—that stupid urge to maintain the speed, to stay in motion with your messy antics until some external force stops him—a simple need to claim you before the inevitable collision.

But there’s no inertia in escalation. In the way his free hand grabs you by the nape and clashes agape mouths together, teeth bumping hard enough to make you consider booking a dentist appointment later. Not a sign of inertia when you grab him, either—a little clumsy through the sharp pain in your twisted arm—bold fingers raking his scalp in a vengeful tug on his hair.

And it’s more than a kiss. If anything, it looks like you’re trying to eat him—tongue out and thrusting into his throat so fiercely that he gags on it, almost tearing up. Now you know what sheer desperation sounds like, and it’s grunting against your mouth, suddenly pitching to a pathetic moan when you grab a handful of chestnut hair and pull so hard that his eyes roll back, lean frame shaking under your violent approach. You use that startled momentum to try and pry your arm free, but he still keeps it in place.

“You’re hurting me!” You hiss, attacking his neck—the very one you always shamefully admitted to finding the sexiest any man can possess, and your teeth roughly pinch at his voice box, coaxing another whine.

“Good.” He groans with spite. “I hope I am.”

And yet, he releases your aching arm, trading it for a calculated squeeze of your waist. But the audacity overshadows his little mercy. You instantly use the unrestrained privileges to force a finger into his mouth—astounded at the way he instantly opens up, almost mockingly pliant. More so when you spit on his tongue, sparing no shame—as if trying to rile him up beyond recognition. Grinning, when your saliva dribbles down his chin.

“Ah.” He huffs, instantly licking up the remnants. “Thank you. Ever so disrespectful.”

“You haven’t earned my respect,” you lie, nudging him towards the chair. Not even bothering to wait until he lands, impatient hands already messing with his belt—so treacherously earnest as you shake, unfastening the buckle, and the bastard chuckles at that, looking down at your eager work.

“That’s a new low, then,” murmurs coyly, helping you into his lap, heavy head leisurely thrown back. “Sleeping with someone you don’t respect.”

“Fuck you.”

“Oh yes. You’re about to.”

You glare at him from under heavy lids, but the anger refuses to linger—not when he stares back full of indignant awe, so clearly basking in your attention. With his cock half-springing out of undone pants, shamelessly twitching against your palm. And not a single breath was hitched to conceal his excitement.

“Must you always be so insufferable?” You reproach, pushing his hair back—too domestic for your own liking, and yet it doesn’t feel unfitting. Especially when he leans into your hand, welcoming your touch on his sweaty forehead—like he wanted you to feel it fever up with want.

“No.” He shakes his head. “But if it can grant me this, I’ll triple the effort.”

“What happened to new lows? You don’t have a fraction of respect for me, either.”

“You’re right.” He shrugs. “Fractions could never encapsulate my tribute to you.”

And his hand slipped under your skirt, shakily crawling home—precisely where you’d never confess to needing him a mere minute ago. But the sentiment did a decent job at diluting your rancour. There came no protest when he introduced two long fingers into your underwear, openly gasping at the evident dampness. And you allowed him that with no regrets. Moreover, you helpfully sank yourself knuckle deep, wincing at the brief burn, arms wrapping around his neck as he sweetly looked up, seeking your permission. Which was instantly found in the pretty moan you spilled into his mouth, slick tongues back at their futile attempts to strangle each other.

However, your patience was running thin. As much as you wanted to indulge in proper foreplay, whatever masochistic dance he exposed you to had you in agony ever since it started—and it was getting unbearable to ignore the ache, no matter how bad Viktor craved to postpone the main course.

Your thighs clenched hard as you crouched above him, fingers wrapping around the hilt to awkwardly line the tip up with your cunt—the slick sound of it slowly sliding down suddenly igniting some tender bashfulness. Like you didn’t just spit in his mouth with a vile smirk. Like he never had to confine you from slapping him in the face.

That stretch felt different from the one after his fingers. Significantly richer, it made you whine—a pitiful sound reverberating against his skin as you held on tighter and allowed him to bottom out, savouring every little crevice inside you. Raw, yet neither of you seemed to care—that concern was pushed alongside your underwear, then forgotten altogether when your walls clenched him, offering tight bliss.

“Move,” you demanded, grabbing him by the chin. Viktor rasped something back, but you didn’t catch it—already too busy tongue-fucking his pretty neck, turning your teeth into sharp tools ready to stain it mauve with bites.

And he complied again. One hand trembled on your hip while the other crawled between your legs—first missing your clit in the chaotic pace of thrusts, then finding it again as it grazed his fingertips. So cheeky when he dared to pinch it, avenging every pull on his hair. Though, he couldn’t gloat in your wince. Not when it clearly was one of the pleasured kind.

But you didn’t feel like letting him regain composure. You already missed his husky groans—ached to test what else fucking you could make him mutter. Fogy gaze found his face again, softening at the sight—all wet forehead full of concentrated creases and thin lips bitten to bloodless paleness.

You took over. Let him lean back and rest as you roughly rode him into the chair—and for that he gave you a grateful moan, the insistent thumb toying with your clit never stopping even for an instant. Good with his hands, and he knew it—proudly grinned when you struggled to keep going, taut legs treacherously giving up astride him.

That didn’t please you in the slightest. You wanted him to be close, too: slid a hand up his chest and angrily tugged at one nipple—chortling when his mouth dropped in a stunned gasp. Bewildered, but he didn’t mind it—amber eyes squeezed shut when his head lolled, and you finally got his lovely moans back—raspier than before, ravenous enough to make your head spin.

You could already feel it, pulsing somewhere deep within. Blurry vision couldn’t make him out anymore, the lab smudging into a mess of weird shapes—you were about to cum, hard, and Viktor threatened to follow suit any second—his thumb failing to hold steady, and yet the pressure was still there, courtlesly helping you chase that sweet relief. Such a gentleman.

“Close,” you chanted. “So, so close.”

“I know,” he answered, choking on a groan. “Me too.”

And you melted, almost crushing him with your weight. Quivering in a spasm so intense that it had him struggling to keep moving, and yet he was mindful of the risk—used the last fractions of his brain capacity to gently nudge you off his cock and pump it fast and hectic. Cumming in one endlessly thick rope, with a moan so vocal that it reached you even through the layers of foggy, ear-buzzing aftermath. Had you shuddering when you clung off his shoulder, glassy eyes wide with trembling astonishment. You stared at him through the approaching wave of disbelief.

No signs of regret so far, or maybe it was simply still forming—for now, you silently admired not a snarky bastard, but a pretty, fucked out boy beneath you.

“Oh, would you look at that.” Viktor chuckled, sheepishly looking down. “I didn’t forget.”

“What?” You mumbled in confusion, following his gaze.

And when it finally caught your attention—sticky and relentlessly staining his pants—you slammed a hand over your mouth, muffling the hysterical laughter.

“And here I thought I finally fucked your remarkable memory out.”

“Oh, by no means. As, eh… intense as that was, that misery of mine is not going anywhere. However,” he trailed off, his hand skittishly moving towards yours, “sex clearly proved beneficial for our… dynamic.”

You smile, sliding your palm into his warm grasp.

“Can it ensure us enough civility to win the competition?”

And Viktor scoffs, coyly looking you in the eye.

“Why should we limit it to just that?”

#viktor arcane #viktor x reader #viktor fanfic #viktor x reader smut #viktor arcane smut #viktor x fem!reader #arcane smut #viktor arcane x reader #no beta we die #viktor x f!reader

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thebestandworstdayofjune · 9 months ago

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desperate people find faith

summary: your first mission ends with you in Jean's lab and a very worried Logan who's had trouble leaving your side wc: 2.0k a/n: thank you thank you so much for all of your very positive feedback on the previous fics with these two!!! I am really looking forward to writing more for them, so please feel free to send any requests for them my way, or Logan requests in general! And yes, the title is from a Taylor Swift song again. Lots of hurt/comfort in this one, talks of mushy gushy feelings, very worried Logan find the previous part here! all empath!reader fics here!

You took the cold table underneath you as a sign that something had gone wrong. You peaked one eye open before quickly squeezing it closed, the bright florescent lights too much to handle. You took a beat, trying to make sense of your surroundings.

You remembered the jet landing in what seemed like the middle of nowhere, you and Jean searching an abandoned building looking for the young mutant that Charles had promised would be there and coming up empty. The two of you had made your way back to the jet and.. shit. The kid had freaked, and you distinctly remember taking enough damage to warrant a swift retreat back to the school. You must be downstairs, in Jean’s lab. It’s probably a bad sign that the first thing you worry about how much shit Logan is going to give you for this.

You reached out with your power, too cautious of the lights (and the judgment of the rest of the team) to look with your eyes. A few people were mildly worried just across the room, but it was hard not to be distracted by the huge amounts of anger and exhaustion on your left. You debated facing him head on, being a grown up about it and fessing up to the fact that you were wrong. Thankfully, you could be immature when the situation called for it. You attempted to even out your breathing and smooth out the crease between your eyebrows, anything that could give you away.

“Sweetheart?” Logan’s voice is so much softer than you were expecting, based on the waves of pure fury currently radiating off of him.

You shush him, blinking one eye open. “I’m sleeping.” You whisper, letting your eye fall shut again.

You felt his hand gently brush over the top of your head. His voice is closer, air tickling your ear as he leans down beside you. “Been sleeping for three days, bub. Need you to wake up now.”

You turn your head to the side and are treated to Logan dropping a small kiss on your forehead. You can’t help but smile at the affection, eyes half open against the bright lights. After a few moments, they dim. Jean takes her place on the other side of the table, lab coat on and stethoscope in hand. You expected her to shoo Logan away in the name of a more thorough analysis but she doesn’t even attempt it.

Logan’s hand finds your own, gripping tight enough to be just short of uncomfortable. Jean makes quick work of taking your diagnostics, and gently informs you that besides feeling fatigued, you are just fine.

That can’t be right.

You know that you caught the brunt of the impact, it was beginning to come back to you. The young mutant had lashed out, and before you’d had the chance to get close, he’d sent a car flying towards you and Jean. She’d managed to counteract it with her own mutation, firmly shoving you out of the way. But she hadn’t been fast enough to catch the small metal spikes he’d also thrown. There was no way you should be ‘just fine’ by now.

Either Jean was in your head or the confusion was showing clearly on your face. She gave you a tight smile, eyes darting between you and the door. She took a few steps back, clearly intent of making her exit. “Jean, wait, there’s no way-”

She gave you her please stop talking smile. “I think it’s best if this comes from him,” she nodded at Logan, placing her stethoscope and clipboard on the side table. “I’ll be back in a bit to do one final check before we clear you.” She gives you another smile that didn’t meet her eyes, and then she was gone.

You began to sit up slowly, still in shock that there was little to no pain, only stiffness from being immobile for too long. “What is she talking about?” Logan huffed, supporting you with a hand on your back. “What’s going on?”

One hand made long, slow strokes up and down your spine, while the other had not loosened it’s grip on your own since you’d woken up. His eyebrows were scrunched together, the tell tale sign of his thinking face. You tried your best not to rush him, but everything about the situation was so confusing and your mind was racing. You were far too healed, and he was being far too calm for the anger that was rolling off go him, still.

“Didn’t expect me to just sit around when you came back one foot in the grave, did ya?”

“I’m sorry if me coming back banged up gave you extra work, I just don’t understand why you’re so upset with me.”

His eyes went wide, the hand on your back stilling. “I’m not mad at you, sweetheart.” The tremble in his voice almost had you convinced.

“Don’t lie to me about it,” you help up your hand, still firmly entwined with his. “I can tell.”

“I’m notmad at you, bub.” He brought the back of your hand to his lips, peppering it with kisses. “I’m mad at the little fuck who did this to you, I’m mad that they let this happen, and I’m furious with myself that I wasn’t there.”

“He’s just a kid, Logan.”

His shoulders shook with silent laughter, a stark white dancing at the edge of his emotions now. Shock. “You almost died, and your first instinct is to defend the little asshole responsible.”

You leaned forward, bumping your shoulder against his chest in warning. “I feel fine.” He nodded, taking a deep breath in through his nose while his hand not currently locked with yours resumed it’s path up and down your back. You let it go on for a few moments, appreciating the silence and the grounding effect of his touch. “Do you… wanna fill me in on why exactly that is?”

He sucked in a breath, shoulders visibly tense. “We were lucky that Hank was stopping by for a visit.” He played with your fingers, distracting himself. You tilted your head to the side, wondering why that information was important at a time like this. “When they brought you in, god there was so much blood. Jean managed to take care of a lot of it, but she didn’t know when, or uh, if you were going to wake up.” He blew out a breath, steadying himself. “You know that Hank has been asking for a long time-”

Both of your hands gripped his tightly. “Tell me you didn’t.”

Hank had been asking for ages to use some of Logan’s blood to synthesize a more advanced healing serum for the X-Men. It was rare they came back with more than bumps and bruises, but he was a worrier and felt that Logan was the key to making something truly effective. The only problem? Logan hated needles. You’d only gotten bits and pieces from him about why, but you had a hunch that when you were alive for as long as he had been, people were willing to poke and prod for some answers. He’d never admit it, but you had felt how terrified he was the last time he’d been down hard after a mission, and Jean had tried to give him an IV of fluids to speed up the regeneration. It hadn’t ended well, to say the least.

“I should’ve done it sooner. Seeing you like this, knowing I could have done something about it.” He shook his head, clearing his thoughts.

Cautiously, you fit yourself against him, arms tight around his neck and your chest flush with his own. You half expected him to reprimand you, to remind you that you should be careful, not to move too much. Instead, he held you tightly, the side of his face pressed against the top of your head. The two of you stayed like that for a good long while, reveling in the comfort of the other.

“I know you think that you only did it because,” you paused, steeling yourself. “Because it was me.” You can feel him trying to pull away, but you mold yourself to him even more tightly, knowing that if he really wanted to he could break away from you like it was nothing. “You’re wrong. You would have done this for anyone.”

“Except for-”

“Even for Scott.” You were quick to cut him off, unwilling to hear him being so harsh on himself.

You pulled back, just enough so that you were able to meet his eyes. You needed him to know that you are being earnest. “You are a good man, Logan. And before you even try to deny it or say I’m lying I know you can hear my heart beat. And I know you can tell when people are lying. And besides, I’ve never ever lied to you, have I?” He shakes his head slowly, one tear falling, and a few more after that. You reached up, brushing them away. He grabbed your hand, gently placing a kiss on your wrist, and then your palm.

“Y’scared me, sweetheart.” He murmured, voice muffled by your palm still against his lips. “Don’t ever do that again.”

You slide your hand to cup the side of his face, prompting him to meet your gaze. “You know I can’t guarantee that.” His eyes closed for a moment, and you knew he was doing his best not to shout. “I will always be careful, but I can’t stay back and leave the work to everyone else. If I can help, I’m gonna help.”

His eyes narrowed, the tiniest hint of a smirk playing at his lips. “Fine. But we’re getting you trained up and you aren’t going out there without me again for a good long while.”

You rolled your eyes, the both of you well aware there was no ill will behind it. “If you insist.”

“I absolutely do.” He pulled you back into his chest, keeping you there until Jean peaked her head in through the door.

“If you two are done being mushy, there are a few people who have been dying to see you.”

Ororo rushed into the room, playfully shoving Logan away to scoop you into her arms. She gently checked you over, ignoring the fact that you’d already had several medical professionals on the case. Scott clasped you on the shoulder, reassuring you that for a first mission, this was a success. You laughed before shooting Logan a look that begged him to let it pass. He huffed, but nodded all the same.

“Shocked we didn't have to keep him from trying to tear the kid apart, but he refused to leave the lab.” Scott nodded his head at Logan, who was continuing to shuffle closer to the table where you sat.

Well, you would be dutifully ignoring the latter half of Scott's quip, instead choosing to focus on the young mutant. “You mean he's?”

Scott smiled, nodding. “He’s settling in upstairs.”

You grinned, glad to know that it hadn’t all been for nothing. You fixed your gaze on Logan, narrowing your eyes at him. “Don’t even think about failing him out of history as some kind of weird revenge, I’ll know and I will find a way to get back at you for it.”

Your friends laughed around you, let you know that Charles has ordered in your favorite take out for dinner and started to filter out of the room. Eventually, you and Logan are left alone again, sitting side by side on the metal table.

“You still owe me an important conversation, ya know.” You bump your shoulder against his. You stay there, pressed against his side with your head leaning on his shoulders. His hand rests on your shoulder, holding you close.

“Maybe wait until you aren’t in a hospital gown, sweetheart.” You rolled your eyes, clearly aware that he was deflecting, but still content to take in his warmth and quiet support. You were safe, and you were home. Not just at school, but with him.

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eff4freddie · 5 months ago

Text

Sittin'

Joel Miller x F!Babysitter Reader No outbreak Joel Miller AU - Words: 10k

Rating: Explicit, Minors DNI

You're working your way through medical school, supporting yourself by taking the occasional babysitting gig. One local single Dad needs someone to look after his 10 year old daughter Sarah on nights when he's late back from the jobsite. And it's all fine and good until your neglectful boyfriend decides to crash the party. Warnings: small age gap (Joel is 32, reader is in medical school), reader is babysitting Sarah as a side hustle to support her studies, Sarah is cute, reader has a shit boyfriend, Joel is trying really hard to resist, exhibitionism, thigh-riding, praise, dirty talk, thigh-humping, oral (f receiving), fingering, general defiling of a perfectly good granite countertop, Joel has opinions about how a woman should be treated as is not afraid to demonstrate them.

A/N: My attempts at writing PWP almost always end up like 10k lol. Whatever, I like a good slow burn. If you enjoy, comments and reblogs are always appreciated. Thank you - Freddie x

It was a hot night, the latest in a long line. You knew you were lucky getting to spend some of your evenings over at the Millers, simply because it meant you got to sit under Mr Miller’s air conditioner, the box wedged firm into the window in the living room, little droplets of water condensing and running down the pane of glass underneath it. You’d put a dishtowel down to protect the carpet.

You knew you were lucky, too, because once Sarah went off to bed you could spread your books over Mr Miller’s kitchen table, listening to the buzzing of the fridge as you tried to memorise the functions of the lobes in the brain. In class, your biomedicine professor had blown up balloons and handed out sharpies, inviting her students to draw the lobes in the right place, and yours had popped when you pressed too hard on the occipital lobe, and your lab partner had laughed and said that it was ironic, but you couldn’t figure it: the motor cortex would have been ironic, this was just startling.

You cracked your neck, rolling your shoulders and looking over to the clock on the wall. Nearly 10:30 PM. Mr Miller would be coming back soon.

Sarah was a good kid, and some nights she stayed up to ‘help’ you study, mostly by pointing to pictures in your textbooks and asking you to explain them to her. She’d hated the full-page coloured illustration of the eye, but had been fascinated by the heart, trailing her finger along the arteries, into the chambers, tracing the pathway in and out again. You’d make a cardiologist of her, yet.

Tonight, she’d only made it to twenty minutes past eight, her eyes growing heavy as she turned the pages of your book. This one didn’t have as many pictures, and you could sense her fatigue in the stuffy air.

‘What kind of doctor do you want to be?’ she’d asked, and you’d pulled your hair up off your neck to try and get some air on your skin. You weren’t sure how to explain it without sounding gruesome, without giving her nightmares. She was only 10.

‘When people have emergencies and they have to go to the hospital right away, they need to see a doctor to patch them back up again…’ you’d said, and she’d stared at you with a tiresome expression on her face.

‘I’m not a baby,’ she said, disapproving. You smiled at her.

‘Trauma surgeon,’ you replied. She nodded her head, deeming your answer satisfactory, and taking herself up the stairs to bed.

She was one of the easiest kids you’d ever babysat for, and over the years you’d racked up quite a roster. You’d started in high school, first saving up enough for the prom dress right in the storefront window, and then later keeping yourself fed during your undergrad. When you’d moved to Austin you’d rented a studio apartment in the back garden of a little old lady, a woman who had revealed herself to be an excellent cook if militant about her hydrangeas. You’d letterboxed the neighbourhood and picked up a few odd jobs but nothing lasting, until the evening you’d got a call from a very frantic Mr Miller, who was so beside himself he only asked how quick you could get there and didn’t even ask about your rates.

It turned out Mr Miller got caught up at the jobsite some nights, staying back later than he expected with his little brother to finish framing, or guttering, or wiring. He was running out of favours with his neighbours, he’d explained, and Sarah was still too little to feed herself. You hadn’t minded, his deep southern drawl doing something to you even over the phone, such that you found yourself cancelling plans just to go and sit on his couch that very evening, textbook over your knees.

Some nights with Sarah tucked up fast asleep you’d stand and stare at the pictures of the two of them, her holding up a soccer trophy nearly twice her size, him standing with his hand in his pocket, his other over the shoulders of a younger man you assumed was Tommy. If you were feeling particularly bold, or were procrastinating especially hard, you’d extend a finger and run them up and down the strings of Joel’s guitar, resting sentinel against the windowsill. You imagined his fingers pushing into the fretboard, the strings indenting the flesh.

It wasn’t even that he was handsome, although he definitely was. He was a young father, doing it almost entirely alone, and on any other man that would have made for grumpy, for overly tired, for entitled. On Mr Miller it made for kindness, for a nurturing type of strength, corded tight under his skin. For a single dad always thinking about his daughter, only ever wanting the best for her. For a man focussed on doing right for his family, small as it was.

You rolled your shoulders, the pre-frontal cortex just about beating you for the night. Just as you were wondering if the Millers kept any ice cream in the freezer, you heard the key in the front door. You listened as Joel followed the same routine, first toeing off his boots, letting out a little grunt as the second one hit the floor. You heard him huff as he stretched his back, rolling his hips in a little circle to try and get some stretch into them, before dropping his keys on the table and padding, surprisingly light on his socked feet, into the kitchen.

‘Hey, Sweetheart,’ he said, his pet name for you emerging on only the second time you’d sat for him and still, even after this many months, causing your stomach to do a little flipper.

‘Evening, Mr Miller,’ you said, and he tutted at you, moving over to the fridge and extracting a beer.

‘Told ya not to call me that,’ he muttered, but you could see the grin behind it. ‘How was my girl tonight?’

‘Perfect, as always,’ you said, smiling at him as he poured you a glass of sweet tea from the jug in the fridge without bothering to ask if you wanted any. You accepted it gratefully, suddenly noticing how dry your throat had become.

‘She’s a good kid,’ he said. He sat down, heavy, in the chair opposite you. The ceiling lamp buzzed above you both, and the light bounced off the fine sheen of sweat accumulating on his arms, on his cheeks. He glowed, even if it was under a layer of exhaustion.

‘You look tired, Mr Miller,’ you said, and he cocked a little grin.

‘You sayin’ I look like shit, Sweetheart?’ he asked.

‘No, never,’ you said, instantly regretting how quickly, how fervently, you had responded. He continued to grin at you, lopsided, the dimple on his right cheek popping out to greet you.

‘What is it tonight?’ he asked, and you held up your book to him. ‘The bio-mech-an-ics-of-thought: phys-ee-ol-o-gee of the brain,’ he intoned, before letting out a low whistle. ‘I don’t know how you do it,’ he said.

‘It’s interesting,’ you defended, unsure why. ‘So long as there are diagrams,’ you added.

‘So that’s where the magic happens?’ he asked, gesturing to the illustrated image of the brain in the centre of the page you had been working from.

‘This is where thought happens,’ you nodded. ‘Kind of like…where decisions are made.’

‘Must be a woman’s brain,’ Joel deadpanned, taking a swig of his beer. ‘Can guarantee men make their decisions someplace else.’

You caught a glimpse of something dark in his eyes as he glanced over you. You blushed, swearing it was just the heat, and furious with yourself. This wasn’t like you; you weren’t some shrinking violet type. You’d had boyfriends, you’d had fun in college. You had no idea what it was about Mr Miller that made you immediately go all giggly, all girly, but whatever it was you wished it would fuck off.

The two of you lapsed into a comfortable silence. You were used to this from him, the way his mind seemed to drift, the way he seemed content enough to let it. Gently, so as not to jolt him out of his thoughts, you closed your book, gathered your pens together. Everything tucked away in your bag you were surprised when you looked up to see he was watching you.

‘Apparently Sarah’s taken an interest in science,’ he said after a moment, his warm eyes watching yours for a second. You felt a tingle of pride in your chest.

‘Oh yeah?’ you asked.

‘Mmhmm, apparently after she pushed Simon Strzelecki off the monkey bars, she offered to patch him up again.’

You grinned before you were able to catch yourself.

‘That’s…very, umm…’ you trailed off and he huffed out a little laugh.

‘It’s very Sarah,’ he agreed.

‘M’sorry, Mr Miller…’ you started, but Joel stood up, waving you off.

‘Don’t be, Strzelecki’s a little shit’f the highest order,’ he said. ‘You gonna let me give ya a lift this time?’ he asked, and this time you shook your head at him.

‘No, I can walk it.’

‘Y’know I don’t like ya walkin’ around out there on yer’own,’ he grumbled, and you felt the insane urge to reach your hand out to rest on his bicep, to ease his evident discomfort.

‘I can handle it,’ you said, instead.

Something stole over his face for a moment, a sharpness in his eyes. For a moment you gazed up at him, the furrow in his brow deepening, the muscles in his jaw twitching as his eyes roamed over your face. Standing this close to him you were reminded how tall, how broad he really was. You dropped your eyes to his arms, crossed over his chest, and imagined him holding you with them, circling them around your back as you leant, safe, into his skin. You blinked yourself back to reality, worried for a second he could read your thoughts.

‘Know you can handle it,’ he said, his voice low, ‘just don’t like it, is all.’

You did this every time, this stand-off. You worried one night you would waver.

‘G’night, Mr Miller,’ you said, over dry lips. He nodded, once, at you, still evidently displeased something dark, something haunted, passing over his features before he brought them back into line.

He stood on the front porch, light still on, until you rounded his driveway and disappeared past the oak tree by the front lawn.

Mick was a guy from your Tuesday morning bio class, and you only realised he was your boyfriend when he introduced you to a few of his friends that way. You’d just gone with it, because it had seemed easier, and he was nice if a little full of himself at times. He was the son of the one the big ranching families, had been almost guaranteed a position at whatever college he chose on the day of his birth, hadn’t ever really considered that money was something you saved, something you worked for.

But he would never let you pay for dinner, and often he showed up to class holding a coffee just for you. You’d been on your own for a long time, had been self-sufficient well before you had any business to, and it was kind of nice to let yourself be cared for, if that’s what this was.

On nights when you had to work he would pout and complain, and you told yourself it was because he cared about you, because he wanted you around, even if some part of you knew he just didn’t like to be alone. Every once and while he would ask if he could come with you, ‘feel you up on the couch like it’s eighth grade’, and it made you feel exactly fourteen years old, like this was a summer job you had failed to grow out of. It didn’t help that he more than once referred to your sitting job as ‘cute’. His mother had stayed at home the moment she fell pregnant with Mick’s older brother, and as far as you could tell was yet to leave. You never asked about a future with Mick, terrified of what kind of picture he would paint.

On one such evening, after he’d been particularly insistent that you blow off your job and come and hang out with him and his friends, he’d starting blowing up your phone just as Mr Miller sat down beside you, weary-boned and sleepy-eyed, at his kitchen table.

You ignored the calls, tried to carry on reading even as Mr Miller arched his brow at your insistently vibrating device. You huffed, knowing at some point Mick would get bored.

‘You’re popular tonight?’ Joel prompted after a while, making you lose your place in the paragraph you’d read over at least ten times already.

You huffed out a sigh, reaching out and scrolling through the stream of notifications. He’d started texting, sometimes just sending a single emoji, sometimes entire paragraphs about how badly you were letting him down. You felt an ache bloom behind your right eye socket, and you reached up to your temple to try and massage it away.

‘It’s my boyfriend,’ you told him, and with your eyes still closed you didn’t see him scowl. ‘He wants me to come out to some bar with him and his drunk friends.’

Joel considered this for a long moment. When you opened your eyes they blurred under the sudden light, and you blinked away sleep to see him clearly again.

‘You should be out with your friends, it’s a Friday night…’ he said, almost looking guilty for a moment, and you rushed to reassure him.

‘No, no trust me…this is better. They’re boring when they’re drunk. And also when they’re sober.’

Joel smiled, straining just slightly, at this.

‘He a good man?’ he asked, and you scoffed a little.

‘He’s barely a man at all,’ you said, automatically. Later you’d reflect on this moment, feel it turn you inside out and scold your skin with the heat of your own shame. For now, though, you were too tired, and it was too hot in the kitchen, for you to catch it.

Joel caught it, though. He cleared his throat.

‘We met at college, and he’s…well, he’s kind of set up for life. He doesn’t have to worry about grades, or proving himself. He’s almost guaranteed his residency.’ You were aware you were starting to sound bitter, and maybe you were just a little. Something about Mr Miller, sitting at his kitchen table late in the evening with a beer, muscles wrapped in a plaid, his soft brown eyes watching you carefully, made you think he’d understand.

‘He doesn’t make you feel good enough for him?’ he asked, after a while.

You considered this, eventually shrugging your shoulders. ‘I don’t know if he makes me feel anything,’ you said, truthfully.

Joel leaned forward, elbows on the table, his chin resting in his hand as he watched you, gazed at your face.

‘What do you want him to make you feel?’ he asked.

‘Seen,’ you said, without hesitation.

‘Just seen?’ he asked. His voice was deathly quiet now, almost entirely gravel. His eyes were burning, sharp. You watched as they darkened, stealing your breath out from under you.

‘Desired,’ you almost whispered. He dropped a hand to the table, his fingertips only inches from yours, resting casual on your textbook.

‘What man’s out there runnin’ round this town not desirin’ you?’ he asked, almost as though he couldn’t believe it, and you felt scorching heat on your cheeks, rushing down your sternum, pooling heavy in your core.

You blinked, terrified to move in case you broke whatever spell had befallen him. He turned thoughtful, his eyes dropping to the woodgrain of the table.

‘Y’been working a lot here…can’t imagine hanging out with me and a ten-year-old girl is the same as bein’ out there, living your youth…’

You felt something heavy shift in your belly, something essential curdle and erode.

‘I like it here, Mr Miller,’ you said, all big eyes and almost quivering lower lip. Joel moved away, sitting up straight and peeling the label off his beer.

‘Pretty thing like you, shouldn’t be spendin’ all night waitin’ on us,’ he said, almost to himself. You shook your head again, but he was closing off on you, you could see it in the way his shoulders were folding, the way his mouth was tugging down at the corners.

Without even considering it, operating almost entirely on instinct, you reached your hand out to rest on his bicep. You watched as his eyes drifted close, a long exhale through his nose. He grimaced, almost like you were hurting him, until he lifted his hand and held yours fast to him, wrapping his paw around you.

‘I really love spending time with Sarah,’ you said, just over a whisper, as he stared hard at the table. You could sense he was avoiding your gaze, and you wanted to say something to draw him to you, wanted to give him a little nugget of truth that he could take into himself, hold deep and quiet in his depths. ‘I love spending time with you,’ you said.

He raised his eyes to yours. His hand was so warm over yours, your cheeks so pink in the sleepless heat of the late evening. You saw his eyes fall to your lips and you slipped your hand from under his, reaching up to trace the contours of his jaw with your fingertips.

‘Baby…’ he whispered, ‘I been’ resistin’ you so long, don’t know if I can…’ and you pushed a finger to his lips. You didn’t want him to break whatever spell you were both suddenly under. Didn’t want him to take this from you both, whatever it was turning out to be.

‘Don’t argue,’ you instructed, quietly. With brows saddled, he nodded his head.

And he didn’t argue. Not when you moved your finger from his lips and traced it down over the hollow of his neck, over to his pulse where it thundered under your tough.

Didn’t argue when you leant forward, pressing your nose to his, giving him time to pull away, to move from your lips.

Didn’t argue when you pressed them to his, a little soft and quiet thing, earning you a wanting gasp from him, a prize you would hold in the cavity of your chest so long as your heart stayed beating.

Later, when you had gathered yourselves, when he had gazed at you and you had felt the want in him mixing with the regret, with the necessity of the un-having corrupting the want to take and take and take, you had simply gathered your books, tucking them quiet and neat into the bag at your feet. He didn’t argue with you about driving you home that night, suddenly quiet in a way that set your teeth on edge, and you felt an ache in your belly you couldn’t account for when he closed the door. You waited behind the trunk of the tree at the end of his driveway, counting the minutes he left the light on for you after you’d slipped from view, giving up when you got past 15.

You were unsettled. Joel hadn’t called for two weeks, and you were starting to worry that you’d ruined things, your silly little kiss bubbling corrosive at the base of your spine. You couldn’t help going over the whole evening again and again in your head.

You should have told him you preferred spending the nights at his house, that the way it smelt like play-dough and sometimes sawdust, sometimes pine, was so unique to the both of them that you felt your nerves settle the moment you stepped over the threshold. That the house was warm and quiet, that you could spread out your books and something essential to you, that in this space with them you felt more yourself than anywhere else on the planet, even locked away in your little studio apartment, even just you and your reflection in the bathroom mirror.

You wanted to tell him Sarah was funny, and smart, and kind, and being around her made you nostalgic for the childhood you never had but ached for, that you felt all that time with her she was giving you something precious and absent, something simple and something sweet. That there were nights you weren’t sure who was sitting who.

You wanted to tell him you didn’t expect anything from him, that it didn’t matter to you if nothing ever happened, if he regretted letting you kiss him, if it had just been that it was too awkward in the moment to say no. Just that you wanted to keep sitting for him, just that if all you got was a casual conversation at the end of the evening and an argument about driving home that would be enough for you, because it would have to be, and so you could make it so.

You begged off seeing Mick for the second Friday night in a row, wanting to be available in case Joel called. You felt silly but you could use the cash. Your textbooks were $400 a piece, and next semester you were taking three classes. Just feeding yourself was enough to stop your studies in their tracks.

Two things happened in the span of ten minutes. A knock at your door stirred you from your lecture notes, and your phone rang. By the time you had it in your hand you were holding Mick back from your face, your palm to his chest, as you craned your neck away from him to speak.

‘M’sorry, Sweetheart, it’s just…I know, it’s a Friday…’

‘It’s fine, Mr Miller,’ you said, ignoring the way Mick was making smoochy faces over your shoulder. ‘I don’t have any plans.’

When you got off the phone Mick was pouting again, and you sighed.

‘I thought I was your plans?’ he said, and you shrugged at him.

‘It’s good money for easy work, babe,’ you said, the nickname sitting heavy on your tongue.

‘I can give you money,’ he said, pulling you towards him by your belt loops and nipping at your jaw. You cringed away from him.

‘That would make me your whore, right?’ you said, and he grinned at you, wiggling his eyebrows.

‘Never seemed to bother you before…’ he said, and you bristled against him.

‘The fuck does that mean?’

“Oh, fuck me, babe, make me yours…” he imitated, his voice high in a general approximation of yours. You blushed, furiously. ‘You think good girls beg like little whores?’ he asked, and you knew he was kidding around, knew that he wasn’t smart enough to do it without outright insulting you, knew that you’d put up with this shit before so there was no reason why he wouldn’t assume he couldn’t get away with it now. You knew the way he spoke to you was basically your fault, and you couldn’t yell at him now that the precedent had been set. You felt yourself crumple, landing with a thump on the edge of your bed.

‘I’ll tell you what,’ he was saying, grinning at you like he’d won his prize. ‘You put the kid to bed, and I’ll come by and keep you happy ‘til Dad gets home.’

You hated the idea, the thought of Mick in that space you’d almost come to think of sacred making your stomach churn.

‘No,’ you said, and you watched as he arched his eyebrows in surprise. ‘You can’t come in…’

‘Say no more,’ he said, grinning again, and for whatever reason, you didn’t.

He arrived, just after 9 PM, already drunk. You winced as he parked his car in the driveway, right in Mr Miller’s spot, worried for a moment he was going to swipe the mailbox when he took the angle too fast. He skidded to a stop mere inches from Mr Miller’s garage door and you exhaled, realising you were bracing for the sound of splintering wood. He ambled over to where you stood on the front porch, tugging at your shirt sleeves in the cool night air.

‘Babe!’ he called, and you shushed him almost instantly. He was carrying a sixpack of beers, three of them already gone. His breath reeked and you wrinkled up your nose when he slung his arm over the back of your neck and pulled you in for a sloppy kiss.

‘This feels like high school,’ he said, and giggled.

‘This is my job, y’know,’ you corrected him, but he wasn’t hearing you, backing you up against the side of the house. You thumped into the brick, wind temporarily knocked from your lungs before he was on you, slipping his entire tongue into your ear in a way that made your skin crawl.

‘Easy…’ you said, and he ignored you, his hand not holding the beers rising up to paw at your breast over your shirt.

‘Mmm…such a tasty little slut,’ he said, and you closed your eyes. ‘Little naughty baby-sitter.’

‘Keep your voice down,’ you stage-whispered, not sure how well your voices wouldn’t carry over the breeze in Mr Miller’s cul-de-sac. He leant down, resting the beers on the front porch so that he could grope you with both hands.

He groaned as he rubbed his cock at your clothed centre. You moved your face to the side, letting your eyes slide closed again.

You tried to think of a romantic movie. Tried to remember some of the fragments of the romance novels your mother had kept stowed under the bed and that you snuck into the den to read to your giggling friends. Tried to imagine a different man, a stranger’s hands on your chest, a stranger’s fingers pinching at your nipples. Tried to imagine what it would feel like if they found the sweet spot, if they sent electric shocks into your belly, into your cunt. You squeezed your eyes shut, trying to push the sound of Mick’s heavy breathing out of your mind, focusing instead on rough and calloused fingers, the scruff of a beard teasing along your skin. Heavy accent and sweet pine, a groaned little ‘Sweetheart…’ as he slipped your shirt up over your shoulders.

‘The fuck’s going on here?’ you heard a gruff voice as your eyes sprang open, pushing Mick from you hard enough that he stumbled, backwards, landing on the grass.

‘Mr Miller!’ you exclaimed, shame burning bright on your cheeks as you righted your clothes. ‘M’so sorry, he just dropped by…’ you started but Joel was striding up his driveway, as you realised with a new flash of guilt he’d had to park on the street.

‘Hey, man…’ Mick was saying, his hands up in front of his face. ‘Just checkin’ in on my girl…’

You cringed, this particular pet name always feeling more like ownership when it came from him.

Joel looked up at you, his brows saddled. ‘You OK, Sweetheart?’ he asked you, and you realised for the first time he wasn’t angry but concerned, his fists balled up like he was ready to spring to your defence.

‘It’s Mick,’ you explained, glancing down at him as he tried to climb to his feet, getting as far as his knees and settling there for a second to plan his next move. ‘He…he wanted to…’

‘Yeah, I saw what he wanted to,’ Joel huffed out, reaching down to pull Mick upright by the back of his shirt. ‘Saw the way you were bracing away from it too,’ he said, looking directly into Mick’s grinning face.

‘What else you see, old man?’ he asked, and Joel dropped him back onto his knees.

‘You got your keys?’ he asked him, and waiting for the younger man to root around in his pockets.

‘Don’t steal my ride,’ he said, handing them over and not noticing when Joel slipped them into his pocket.

‘M’going inside, and I’m gonna call you a taxi, and you’re getting in. She can drive your car back to you tomorrow mornin’…if she doesn’t decide to drive it off a cliff,’ he said, abandoning Mick on the front lawn and coming towards you, grabbing your wrist gentle but firm in his hand and pulling you inside. ‘C’mon, darlin’,’ he said, and you followed, almost entirely on autopilot.

‘I’m so sorry, Mr Miller,’ you started but he waved you away, placing a call for the taxi while keeping you fixed in your spot with his glare. When he was done, he rolled his shoulders, sighing.

‘You sit,’ he said, striding into the kitchen and emerging moments later with two glasses of sweet tea. You realised, as you lifted your hands to take your glass from him, that you were shivering.

‘I didn’t know he was going to do that,’ you said, and Joel shook his head. You felt the waves of disappointment rolling off him and you worried for a moment you might cry.

‘He always touch ya like that?’ he asked, palming at the back of his neck.

‘Like what?’ you asked, your cheeks burning again.

‘All…clumsy and…disrespectful,’ he said, quiet. He stared at the floor between you while you perched on the edge of the couch.

‘Well…’ you started, but you weren’t sure how you wanted to finish that sentence. Sometimes he doesn’t even bother to touch me at all, you thought.

Joel scoffed, his jaw squeezed tight. ‘Guys like that are all the same, Sweetheart, just…selfish. Even in the bedroom. No lady should be touched like she’s a piece of meat.’

You considered, for one crazy moment, if Joel wasn’t so much disappointed in you as he was in Mick’s prowess. Suddenly you had to stifle a giggle.

‘What’s so funny?’ Joel asked you, surprised.

‘Just…I mean, they all go to such fancy schools, get all that college for basically free…’ you started, trailing off when you saw him starting to smile. ‘He can’t even boil an egg, and I don’t mean mine,’ you said, and he laughed then, free and loud, and the sound of it made a little fizzle of joy spark up your spine.

This was fun, you realised, shitting on your terrible boyfriend with the most handsome single Dad you’d ever laid your eyes on. This was really, really fun.

‘So, I take it he don’t make you breakfast in the mornin’,’ Joel joked, and you snorted. ‘What you eat for breakfast, anyway?’ he asked, turning to you now, his eyes crinkling at the corners. You swallowed. ‘No, wait,’ he said, ‘let me guess.’ He pretended to look you up and down, his brow arching as he considered. ‘You’re not a waffles kinda girl,’ he said, thoughtfully. You grinned and shook your head. You’d never liked the sponginess. ‘But you’re too fun for plain old oatmeal,’ he said, and you felt a blush crawling across your chest. ‘You’re a pancake princess,’ he decided, finally. ‘Am I right?’

You pretended to consider it for a second before nodding happily at him. ‘Maple syrup and berries,’ you agreed.

‘Maple syrup and berries,’ he said, grinning in his victory. He paused, something passing between you. Suddenly he shifted forward, his knees just barely brushing yours. You found yourself mirroring him, leaning in enough that you had to put your hand out to steady you, landing it on the cushion only inches from his thigh. You could feel his warm breath on your cheek when he whispered in your ear, ‘tart…but a little bit of sweet for m’sweetheart.’

You felt heat scorch its way up your chest, reduced to kindling beside him.

‘Bet he don’t kiss ya like ya should be,’ he said, and you thought for a second of Mick, grinning and drunk out of his mind on the front lawn. You wondered if the taxi had come for him yet, and had absolutely no interest in going out to check on him.

‘Mr Miller…’ you whispered, and he groaned, then, his eyes rolling back in his head.

‘Please, baby, when you call me that…’ he trailed off, eyes blown wide and you felt, then, the thundering in your chest. From this distance you could see his racing pulse in his neck, the same pace as yours.

‘Mr Miller…’ you said, again, staring now at his lips. You wanted to reach out and just take a little nibble.

And he was on you, grasping the back of your head and bringing it down to him, crashing his lips into yours as you gasped, swallowing the echo down into his throat. His tongue, scorching hot, exploring your mouth as he teased it open, the scruff of his beard tickling your cheeks.

‘Thought about you…’ you said, without even thinking, and Joel pulled back a second to appraise you; your swollen lips, your doe-eyes gazing up at him.

‘Say that again,’ he mumbled.

‘When he’d take me, I’d think about you,’ you said, and you watched as his eyes fell shut, taking the moment to glance down at his heaving chest, the aching bulge between his legs. ‘Thought about your hands on me, Mr Miller, about your mouth.’

‘Fuck, Sweetheart…’ he said, almost as if it pained him, before his eyes snapped back open to gaze at you.

‘Kiss me?’ you asked, sweet as you could for him while you tried with both hands to hang on to the moment, to stay here in it with him. You would need to remember this, every corner of the room, every detail. Would spend nights reconstructing his face in your mind, the way he was looking at you now, wanting and red-cheeked, dark eyes and a hot little huff as your words landed their blows on him.

‘Canna touch you, baby?’ he asked, and you were nodding, pulling him towards you as he slid his hands over your waist. Threading your hands through his hair he brought you over him, straddling him on the couch as he stared up at you, brows arching high, as if he couldn’t quite believe it was happening. You smiled at him, feeling like his prize, as you brought your hips down on him and watched his eyes ease shut, heard his breath stutter. He was big, you could feel it even as the seam of his jeans rubbed at your core. You could feel yourself aching for him, hot and pounding where you ground yourself down.

‘Fuck, Mr Miller…’ you gasped as you felt him push his cock up into you, his hands on your hips and pulling you down.

‘So beautiful, baby,’ he whispered, reaching up with one hand to cup your breast, squeezing the nipple between his fingers that, even through your shirt, shot lightning bolts to your cunt. You gasped, a high-pitched little sound you were sure you’d never made before, and he soaked it down into his skin, kept it held tight and precious in the core of him, to keep him warm on cold evenings.

You felt yourself shivering, even as his warm fingertips dropped to lift the hem of your tee and trace their way back up to your tits along the skin. His enormous hands almost completely captured it, and you felt small, then, and shy, but when you looked down into his warm, brown eyes you saw only safety there, only naked desire for your pleasure.

You let your hips roll, that building ache in your core. You’d only ever felt this alone, had never had another person bring it out of you, and you felt the sharp edges of it as you felt a shard of panic slice through your gut. No one had ever done this for you, before. You weren’t sure if your body would allow it, weren’t sure if you could let go enough to fall.

‘Hey…’ Joel said beneath you, his eyes roaming your face. ‘Relax, Sweetheart,’ he whispered, reaching his hand from your hip to your jaw, pulling you down to rest your forehead on his. ‘Just you n’me, baby,’ he whispered as you rocked on top of him. ‘You can take what you need,’ he promised. ‘I got you.’

‘Joel!’ you gasped, the shiver in your body now ratcheting up your spine, your thighs burning as you rolled your hips on his lap, his cock still tucked away in his jeans. ‘I don’t know if I…’

‘Sssh…’ he cooed, raising a thumb to your lips and slipping it between your teeth. You sucked instinctually, swirling your tongue over the tip and letting your eyes drift closed. ‘Just feel it, baby,’ he said, ‘don’t force it. Let it grow.’

Never in your life had you felt like this. You took his thumb between your teeth as you ground, the spark of fear in your belly engulfed by the roar of your desire. You could feel your hips stuttering, could hear yourself starting to pant.

‘Good girl…’ Joel encouraged, slipping his thumb from your mouth now and smearing it across your lips. ‘Right here for ya, baby,’ he said. ‘Wantchya to feel so good.’

You cried out, smacking your hand over your mouth to stifle your cries. He was going to kill you, and you would let him again and again, let him bring you back to life just to kill you this way all over again. You had no idea bodies were made to feel this good.

‘Oh!’ you gasped, all the warning you could muster as he grabbed your hips with both hands, slamming his bulge up into you as he pulled you down, the seam of his jeans rubbing hard into your clit. ‘Yes!’ you whispered, your body shuddering as you felt yourself crest, the pleasure roaring from your cunt to your chest, exploding out of your skin as you rolled, roiled, boiled on top of Mr Miller.

‘Jesus, there she is…’ he whispered, and you opened your eyes to gaze down at him, your breath still coming in gasps as he watched you, awe and desire on his face. ‘There she is,’ he said again, like a prayer, a benediction.

You woke slowly, the dappled light streaming in through the oak tree beside Joel’s window. It took you a moment to orient yourself, to remember that you were in his bed because he’d considered it too late for you to take yourself home, even if you had Mick’s car. Because the pleasure he’d wrung out of you on his couch had left you boneless, because the idea of ripping yourself from his smell, from his heat, was unthinkable in that moment.

You stretched, noting that the other side of the bed remained made, that he had spent the night on the couch. You remembered that you had wanted to ask him to stay, that the words had formed on your lips, and that in that moment you saw the regret on his face, the longing to tuck himself in beside you and pull you into his chest, let the weight of the night take him and you with him, but that he wouldn’t allow it, that he was holding back. You weren’t sure why, but you assumed out of decency, out of respect. Out of some vague employee-boss professionalism you would both cling to in an attempt to paper over the grasping maw of desire opening up between you.

You had wanted him, and you had denied him, allowed him to deny you. You rolled to your back in a frustrated huff, surrounded by the scent of him, of his cologne and the scent of his skin imbued in the sheets beneath you.

After a while you heard noises in the kitchen and you left your cocoon, pulling your clothes on and padding down the stairs constructing a cover story for Sarah as to why you were still there. When you rounded the corner, though, you saw only Joel –in a pair of sweatpants and nothing else, standing at the stove.

‘Hey, Sweetheart,’ he said casually, as if you hadn’t come on his lap less than twelve hours before, ‘Sarah’s headed off to soccer practice, so you and me’ll have to take care of all these.’

He gestured over his shoulder to the kitchen table, where a stack of cooling pancakes stood proud. You felt a shiver of shock run though you at the sight of them, turning to Joel with the curl of tears tickling the back of your eyes. ‘No berries, sorry darlin’,’ he said, without looking up. ‘But we got enough syrup to make it up to ya, I hope.’

You weren’t sure anyone had ever done anything like this for you. You wanted to sob, wanted to walk over to the table and pick up the pancakes in your fists and mash them into your skin, wanted to drown them in syrup and eat until your belly distended, wanted to force feed them into Joel. Instead, you stepped forward, your arms opening all of their own accord, wrapping yourself around his back like a Koala. He huffed out a surprised laugh, growing serious when he turned you in his arms to face him, seeing the gathering tears at your waterline.

‘Hey, what’s this?’ he asked, and you grinned, watery, up at him.

‘No-one has ever…’ you started, catching your words before they spilled too much of the truth. Understanding passed over Joel’s face.

‘Oh, my sweet girl…’ he said, and you glowed for a minute, the words reaching down into your chest and igniting something long extinguished.

He leaned down towards you, pressed his nose to yours, his forehead resting gently on yours. You inhaled him, his scent and the sweet smell of the pancakes on the stove, tried to imprint the memory deep in your DNA.

‘What the fuck is this?’ an angry voice sounded from behind you, and you snapped away from Joel, taking several steps back. Mick, still in his same clothes from the night before, stood furious in Joel’s kitchen.

‘The fuck, you let yourself in?’ Joel asked, matching Mick’s anger with his own. ‘This is a private residence, man.’

‘That’s my girlfriend, man,’ Mick spat, his face twisting into an ugly mask you weren’t sure you’d ever noticed on him before. ‘The fuck you doing feeling her up? You stealin’ my car and my girl?’

‘Mick…’ you started but he was ignoring you, advancing on Joel. You stepped towards him, hands up to placate, but Joel was suddenly beside you, tucking you behind him and shielding you with his broad chest.

‘Back up, buddy,’ Joel said, a whispered warning.

‘Me, back up?’ Mick seethed, about to go on before Joel interrupted him.

‘Yeah, you back up. You need to sit your arse down and learn yourself somethin’,’ he said, advancing on Mick so that the younger man took several steps backwards, heading towards the kitchen table. You wondered if anyone had ever actually stood up to him, if usually his wealth was enough to make people cower. He backed into a kitchen chair, slamming down into it with a thud as he stared up at Joel, the older man red faced and pointing a finger at his chest. ‘You think that little display last night was any way to treat a woman?’ he grit out. You watched as Mick shook his head no. ‘You think she enjoyed that, being pawed at in the dark like a fuckin’ street walker?’ he asked.

‘She looked pretty whorish a few seconds ago,’ Mick responded, petulant and stupid. You could see by the way Joel braced his shoulders, his back expanding in resplendent fury, that Mick had made the wrong fucking choice.

‘Ya little shit,’ Joel said, stepping back from Mick and towards you. He held his arm to you, beckoning you into his chest and you went to him, tucking yourself against his side.

‘You have a woman like this, you fuckin’ cherish her,’ Joel muttered, tracing his fingertips along your side and making you shiver. ‘Look at these pretty little tits,’ he said, moving to cup them as you blushed, tucking your face into his neck. You heard Mick’s sharp intake of breath, mirroring your own as Joel rolled your nipples through your shirt. ‘The way you were grabbin’ at ‘em last night, you think that felt good? You make her groan like this?’ he asked, applying just the right amount of pressure on the sensitive nubs, eliciting a moan from you, unbidden.

‘Listen, man, this is…’ Mick started but Joel cut him off with just a look, stern and disapproving, before his face shifted back to adoration when he turned to you.

‘Let’s show him, baby?’ he asked, his brows saddled high. You knew you were safe with him, that at any moment you could call it off, but you wanted this. You wanted Mick to see what Joel could do to you, the sounds you could make. Wanted him to feel small and insignificant in the presence of a real man, of real pleasure. Wanting him to see what money couldn’t buy.

You nodded your head at Joel and watched as the grin bloomed over his face. ‘M’good girl,’ he said, quiet enough that only you could hear it, and you felt the bolt of want shoot down into your core. Your cunt already aching, already dripping for him.

‘Show me where,’ he said, stepping back as you surveyed the space. You nodded towards the kitchen island, the bench just above your hip height. Joel nodded, lifting you up easily to perch on the edge, your body facing Mick as he sat, frozen, at the table in front of you.

‘Slip these off, baby,’ Joel said, tugging at your sweatpants and you lifted your hips as he slipped them, your panties along with them, out from underneath you. The granite countertop cold on the top of your thighs you revelled in the sensation of it, the hard, cold surface so different to Joel’s hot body as he hovered at your side.

‘Show him,’ he said, tapping you on the knee. You spread your legs, hooking one thigh over the edge of the counter and the other widening out to your side, your cunt unfolding before the two men in front of you. You watched as Mick’s face turned pink, sweat appearing on his brow. You turned to look at Joel, the hunger in his eyes as he devoured every inch of your skin. He reached over, running his fingertips over the inside of your thigh, moving closer to you, leaning over your body to whisper into your ear.

‘You’re dripping onto my countertop, baby,’ he said, and you could hear the glee in it, the wanting.

‘For you, Joel,’ you clarified. ‘Not him.’

‘Nah, never for him, I reckon,’ Joel agreed, his fingers slipping further towards your slit. You felt totally exposed and wanton, whorish, as Mick had put it, and your cunt was pulsing, aching from the desire of it. You felt like a priceless piece of art admired in a big city museum, like a stripper opening up her legs for hoards of braying men, like a girlfriend letting her disappointing boyfriend know in no uncertain terms he would no longer neglect her. You felt power coursing through your veins and into your cunt, your slick pooling on the top of your thighs as the most beautiful man you had ever seen stood beside you and teased the pleasure from every nerve.

‘Fuck…’ you whimpered as Joel’s fingers landed light and dexterous on your clit, the little bundle of nerves sending the pleasure roaring through your core and into your chest. You bucked your hips, nearly slipping from the countertop, Joel coming forward again to brace you against his chest.

‘God, look how much she wants it,’ Joel said over your head to Mick. ‘Bet you’ve never made her jump like that.’ You opened your eyes, not even having realised they’d closed, to watch Mick swallow hard and heavy. You beamed back at Joel, letting the pride in his face radiate warmth down upon you.

‘So good f’me, so good t’me,’ he said, spreading your lips apart with his fingers and pushing a fingertip inside. You gasped, shock on your face at the intensity of the need for him burning where he touched.

‘Please…’ you whimpered, just wanting more and just wanting him to never stop, just wanting him to reach inside you, to wring the pleasure out of you, to make you come so hard you forgot your own name.

‘Sshh…’ he cooed to you, ‘your boyfriend needs to concentrate so he can learn.’

You emitted a squeal of frustration, bucking your hips on his hand to try and draw him in, earning you only a chuckle from Joel.

‘Ok baby, m’sorry. Just like teasin’ ya,’ he grinned at you, before sliding two fat, rough fingers hard into your cunt.

For a second you lost touch with reality, your head flying back to the ceiling as sensations strong enough to take your breath roared from your cunt. The stretch was delicious, the heel of Joel’s hand rubbing hard at your clit as his fingers reached deep inside you, opening you up for him, your slick gathering in his palm.

‘Look how wet she gets,’ Joel noted, over his shoulder to Mick. ‘Such a shiny little cunt when she’s drippin’ like this. You ever work her up like this?’

You heard Mick grunt, a pleading note of displeasure, and you sighed as Joel started pumping, stoking the fire in your cunt that threatened to eviscerate you and everyone within the vicinity.

‘Joel!’ you gasped, rolling your hips again, trying to shove him deeper into your greedy little cunt as it grasped at him.

‘Could lick ‘er up, whatchyu reckon?’ Joel asked, already getting down on his knees as you groaned, certain now he was going to send you into the stratosphere. ‘Can I, baby?’ he asked, and you nodded, frantic, unable to form words.

‘Bet she tastes sweet,’ Joel said to Mick, who was inching closer in his chair, peering over Joel’s shoulder as your cunt swallowed his thick fingers. ‘Like watermelon on a hot summer day. You ever taste her, Mick?’ he asked. You watched as the shame bloomed over Mick’s face. Joel scoffed. ‘Course not, ya fuckin piss weak little prick,’ he spat before turning, diving in to lick a fat stripe at your folds, settling in to lap at your clit as his fingers worked you.

You screamed, sucking in huge lung-fulls of breath just to let them keen out of you, your hips slamming shut on Joel’s head as he sucked at you, every nerve ending screaming now as you felt the blooming heat of release.

‘Oh, he’s gonna make me…’ you said to Mick over Joel’s shoulder, watching you with owlish eyes.

‘Don’t talk to him,’ Joel admonished you, pulling your focus down to him as he perched between your legs, ‘you talk to me,’ he said.

‘Sorry, Mr Miller,’ you said, watching as his eyes rolled shut, a shiver passing over his shoulders.

‘Be the death of me…’ he muttered, returning his attentions to your pulsing cunt. You gripped his hair, rolling your hips on his face and rocking into him, chasing the release now gathering at the base of your spine.

‘Jesus…oh, fuck…’ you cried, trying desperately to warn him, your eyes slamming shut only to open in shock as he found new ways to wring the pleasure from you.

Joel worked you up, his tongue never fatiguing, setting up the perfect rhythm to hold you just on the edge. You could feel your sweat pooling on your skin, the heat in your cunt spreading down your legs, the pull of the knot in your belly.

To your utter dismay Joel stopped, lifting his face to address Mick at his shoulder. ‘You ever make her squirm like this?’ he asked, and you cried for him, then, scrabbling to grip his shoulders, his chin, to push him back to your desperate cunt. He laughed, nipping at your fingertips as they passed by. ‘Look at her graspin’ for me. You seein’ this? This is what real pleasure looks like.’

You cracked open an eye, the room spinning around you as you fought to regain control of your limbs. You saw the look of shame embedded deep into Mick’s face now, the sight of it somehow intensifying your pleasure, the building pressure in your cunt.

‘Fuck me,’ you gasped, turning your attention back to Joel, his eyebrows shooting up. ‘Show him how to fuck,’ you groaned, pushing off the countertop and spinning up onto your toes, laying chest down on the granite now hot to the touch from your writhing body on top of it. You spread your legs a little, knowing that your puffy little cunt lips would be revealed to them both, and you heard them both groan, Joel’s chesty moan full of grit, Mick’s high pitched and brimming with regret.

‘Don’t do this, man…’ he pleaded, and you heard Joel’s little scoff.

‘That’s the thing, buddy, the lady always gets what she wants.’

You felt him come to stand behind you, heard the rustle of his sweats as he pulled his cock over the waistband. It took everything in you not to turn and admire it, knowing in that moment you would have plenty of opportunity.

‘Fuck, she’s got me weepin’,’ Joel said, and you heard the unmistakable sound of skin on skin as he wrapped his hand around himself and tugged. ‘Got me harder than a railroad spike, this little cunt…’ he muttered. You whined, swivelling your hips to try and entice him, begging him to move faster as the walls of your cunt fluttered for him. You heard him sigh, a happy little sound. ‘Ok, baby, I’m here,’ he said, running a hand up your spine to hold you gentle and firm at the back of your neck, the head of his cock nudging at your cunt. ‘Gotta be gentle with my sweet little pussy,’ he said to you, leaning over you to place a chaste kiss in the cup of your shoulder blade.

‘Please, let him see it stretch me,’ you said, and you felt Joel shudder, notching himself at your entrance.

‘Keep talkin’ like that and I’ll chain him up in the basement, make him watch me fuck you every day,’ he muttered, pushing gently at first, the tip enough to make you gasp.

He was big, you realised. All of this time working you up he’d been leading to his moment, preparing to tease you open. ‘Oh, shit…’ you gasped as he pushed.

‘You ok, baby?’ he asked, pausing until you nodded, frantic, hands gripping at the edge of the counter for purchase as you pushed back into him, sliding in a few extra inches, as Joel moaned.

You were dimly aware that Mick was moving, coming to stand in front of you, a look of sorrow and unabashed heat on his face.

‘Please, can I?’ he asked, rubbing himself through his pants and you swatted him away.

‘No, fuck you,’ you said, emboldened by Joel’s desire for you, by his cock currently splitting your folds. ‘You never get this pussy again,’ you hissed at him, and you felt a bloom of pride at the look of hurt crossing his face just as Joel cheered from behind you.

‘That’s my beautiful girl!’ he gasped, bringing a finger to your clit and rubbing tight circles into it, making you gasp as you let your head fall, resting on the countertop. ‘So good f’me.’

The burn in your cunt from the way he stretched you abated, the pleasure Joel was giving you from your clit causing more slick to gather, your cunt grasping him again, your walls fluttering as you felt the ache turn to sweet pleasure, to a blooming rapture.

You lost touch with the ground, Joel’s harsh thrusts pushing you further up the counter, completely at his mercy as your legs hung useless beneath you, hands braced against the granite to give him purchase. In this moment, spread out on his cock, your cunt open and dripping for him, the pleasure ripping the words from your brain, gasps racking your throat, you felt completely under Joel’s spell, his touch, his heat. Mind-numb, thoroughly fucked out, gripped in this moment between the build up and the threshold of release.

‘Oh, you’re gonna make me…’ you warned but Joel had you, was there already with you.

‘I know, baby, I know,’ he grunted between thrusts. ‘Can feel it, can feel that sweet little cunt grippin’ me.’

You cried out, nodding your head furiously, entirely at his mercy now. ‘Yes, yes…Joel, it’s gonna…’

‘Let it go, baby,’ he moaned, and you felt none of the panic, none of the terror at your impending release, wrapped up safe in Joel’s body, in his groans of rapture, in the pull of the knot as it threatened to snap entirely.

‘Watch me make her come,’ he spat out over your head, and you were only dimly aware of what he was saying as your release sped towards you.

You writhed, your breath stolen from you by the roar of the wildfire across your chest. The push of your orgasm slipping you under, crashing your body into the shore, rolling and quaking underneath it as indescribable lust coursed through your veins.

‘Oh, fuck, there she goes,’ Joel spluttered, his hips stuttering as he started to deepen his thrusts. ‘Gonna fill up ya girl,’ he grit out, his final movements sloppy and desperate as he approached the edge.

‘Do it, baby,’ you whimpered beneath him, words finally able to escape the cage of your throat. ‘Need you.’

He did, then, his come exploding into you and washing you clean, cleansing you of Mick, of all your disappointments, of all your fears. You looked back over your shoulder at him as he crested, his eyebrows saddled and his eyes trained on you, a look of reverence and hunger, of sweet shock, as though he couldn’t believe how good it felt either, as if everything for him was also slotting into place, as if he knew in this moment he would never let anyone separate you, would never let anyone take you from his side, that in his moment you were his just as much as he was yours, that this was a forging of something solid and essential, something vital and something precious, something that was just for you.

You didn’t remember Mick leaving. Didn’t care to say goodbye.

Joel had peeled you off the counter and carried you upstairs, drawn you a bath and lowered you gently into the water, sat beside you and washed your body as you lulled in and out of a light sleep.

Drying you off he wrapped you up in his clothes, swamping you in cotton and his scent, before promising to make you a fresh batch of pancakes. You hadn’t let him, whimpering when he tried to leave your side, pulling him down beside you on the bed and wrapping his arms around you.

Later you would figure out lunch, and then Sarah, and then the rest of your lives. For now, you had each other, and cool sheets, and the light patter of rain as a welcome cool breeze blew new life over the garden beneath Joel’s window.

#joel miller x reader #joel miller #pedro pascal fanfiction #pedro pascal #joel miller x you #joel miller fanfic #joel miller smut #pedro pascal characters fanfiction #pedro pascal fic #the last of us fanfiction #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller one shot #joel miller x f!reader #joel miller x female reader #tlou fanfiction #tlou fic

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starvales · 3 months ago

Text

take me where my soul can run

s. ishigami x gn!reader

synopsis: short scenarios, in different point of views, of the kingdom of science questioning just who are you to senku.

content: dr stone spoilers, set before ryusui, sfw, fluff, smidge of angst, small skinship, childhood friends, ambiguous relationship, gender neutral reader, y/n is not used, improper use of school lab equipment.

a/n: if you can figure out what song the title is from the you get 10 billion points >:) in my mind for this fic, reader is sort of specialised in linguistics, i.e languages, theatre, poetry, basically a certified yap master 💀💀

word count: 2k

“I don’t have a sliver of doubt that you’re with Senku right now. After all, what are you two without each other, amiright?”

The Ishigami village goes oddly quiet, another companion before the stone world, perhaps? Senku had mentioned Taiju and Yuzuriha in passing quite a few times, but on the other hand, what made you so different that the founder had said your name specifically?

While the descendants ruminate in their own wonder and curiosity, there’s a heavy ache thumping against Senku’s chest, despite the laughter coming from his father.

Sorrow and grief line his veins, loneliness pumps his heart, and the burden of humanity rests upon his brittle shoulders.

(“To be drowning in loneliness despite being surrounded by others is quite the unfortunate fate, no?” You were sat atop a table, swinging your feet while watching Senku mix some chemicals that you’ve forgotten the names of. “I can’t imagine you being able to function without my ever so benevolent company.”)

As if that wasn’t enough, just to top all of it off, he has yet to find your petrified body.

Trust him when he says that he’s tried and tried, tirelessly in fact, in between the breaks he gave himself during the first months of post-petrification solitude and the rare moments away from the Ishigami village.

As lack of luck would have it, you were just nowhere to be found.

(Senku hands you a beaker, a quiet gesture to drink whatever’s in it, and you take a sip without hesitation. While onlookers that aren’t from the science club would assume he handed you an unknown concoction to drink, it’s just tea that he brewed with his equipment. You claim that he makes it best.)

With how much you occupy his mind, he can hear your voice going into a spiel about nothing but nonsense of the current situation that somehow turns poetic.

Byakuya says your name again with a chuckle. “Keep him on his toes, okay? Wouldn’t want a wild Senku roaming around the world without you!”

(“Heh, I would relish in the peace and quiet if it means i’m away from you.” He says while adding more sugar to your beaker with a lab spatula with careful precision and mixes it for you.)

Senku does not believe in wishing, but just this once, he hopes that when this war is over, that he’ll be able to let you listen to Byakuya’s last message and laugh at the old man with you again.

Just where are you hiding?

(You smile knowingly, as if you could read his mind. “To borrow a phrase from someone I know quite well, you would ten billion percent miss me.”)

“When we win this war, Taiju and I have a surprise to show you, Senku! A very belated Birthday present.”

Before the aforementioned scientist could protest, probably to say he doesn’t need or want a gift, Taiju cuts in.

“Senku! We found them!!”

There’s your name again, Gen thinks while he takes a side glance at Senku, whose grip on the microphone shifts into one with more attentiveness, more interest.

The atmosphere around Senku feels different, too.

Not suffocating or cold, but not necessarily warm, either. More odd, if anything. Relieved? Skeptical, curious. Anticipation?

Senku is stationary and silent. Definitely thinking.

“Taiju, it’s not a surprise anymore if we tell him what it is…”

“Ah, I just got so excited! Sorry, Senku! But i’m sure you’re excited to see them now, I bet you miss them a ton!!”

Ever since that record of Byakuya, Senku has been offhandedly mentioning you every so often in conversation. Even entertaining questions about you from the village, though only when he isn’t busy with, y’know, war prep against the Empire, and if they’ve caught him in a sharing mood.

It’s as if he finally deems it safe to reveal your existence to this new world; an environment and community that would not harm you.

Defensive. Cautious.

A relative?

Definitely not. Senku has mentioned being an only child and only having Byakuya.

A friend?

While it’s closer to the mark, it’s also not quite there at the same time.

Gen can see that Taiju and Yuzuriha mean a lot to Senku, but they don’t implore the same type of look or tone of voice that Senku presents when you’re mentioned.

You’re close to Senku, but seemingly much closer than just a long-time childhood companion.

Perhaps… a lover?

…

No, Senku isn’t one to indulge himself in customs as flimsy or as pitiful as love. The scientist even said so himself, multiple times: love is illogical, a waste of time, or plain simply, not even a millimetre interested in it.

Another thing about Senku is that he isn’t one to go back on his word unless it benefits his goals, and Gen can’t see any benefit from lying about love of all things.

“Oi, what’s got you looking so constipated, Mentalist?”

“Nothing in particular, Dearest Senku~”

Then that begs the question, just who are you?

“What does ‘muse’ mean when you use it to describe Senku? I’m not too sure what the word itself means either, but it sounds too intimate of a nickname for two people that claim not to be lovers.”

(A few from the Kingdom of Science had accompanied Senku, Yuzuriha, and Taiju in locating your statue, curious as to what you looked like. And just a few moments ago, they had found, dressed, and poured the revival fluid on you, standing back as the phenomenon of breaking out of the stone begins.

“Well, if it isn’t my dearest muse! How have you been faring these past few centuries?” There’s a twinkle in your eyes that nobody that didn’t know you has quite seen before, it’s almost enchanting, as if you were unconsciously beckoning people to pay attention to you.

Before anybody could hear their resident scientist’s response, Taiju and Yuzuriha unexpectedly pushes the group away from the reunion.

“Hey, what gives! I wanna hear what Senku has to say so I can make fun of him later!” Ginro doesn’t back down without a fight, but with Taiju’s sheer willpower, it was like watching a baby try to push down a brick wall.

“Ahaha, it’s best to leave those two alone for now.” Yuzuriha gently beckons Suika and Kohaku towards the camp. She looks back for a moment, but doesn’t stop walking. “They will come back with Senku to introduce themselves soon enough, trust me when I say they’ll make quite the entrance.”

The group may be far from the clearing from where you are with Senku, but with her eyesight, Kohaku can see an embrace of two people.

With your back turned towards her, she can see Senku’s grip on your clothing, holding tightly, trembling.

She decides to keep this to herself, for now.)

Kohaku is blunt in asking you the question that’s been itching her brain for a few weeks now.

You were revived only around a month ago, and have already contributed plenty to the Kingdom of Science, especially with the morale of the labourers: performing quick theatre skits, or maybe occasional performance acts with Gen to help manipulate encourage the workers to do their job faster.

Kohaku also decides that if Senku isn’t going to address whatever is between the two of you, she’ll surely get the answers out of you!

“Hm, the best way I can explain is to just look at him.”

She feels her brow twitch. Kohaku guesses that you’re a dead end too and groans into her hands.

You chuckle but do not look up from your work on the blueprints infront of you.

Kohaku glances at the scientist, not far from your personal work bench - he’s giggling to himself while tinkering with who knows what - and raises a brow, typical Senku behaviour at work there.

“What about him?” She asks, unimpressed.

“Isn’t he the most interesting thing you’ve ever laid eyes on?” From Kohaku’s angle, she notices a soft smile and an adoring glimmer in your irises.

Interesting is one word to put it, Kohaku thinks and doesn’t comment further.

But she also thinks she understands just the tiniest bit more than before; you and Senku are both those kinds of people that just know rather than say.

On the other hand, the child that adorns a watermelon head sat to the right of you, unknowing of the underlining meaning of your words, is oblivious and lost.

“But Senku’s just in his element at the moment, building new gadgets and inventions Suika has never ever seen before, so he looks like regular old Senku to me!“

“Exactly.”

You put your pencil down, roll up the finished blueprint, and hand it to Kohaku to give to Senku.

Seeing Suika’s eyes swirl in confusion through her lenses, you offer her a small apology and a head pat. She hands you another large sheet of paper for the next room plan.

Suika feels like there’s now even more questions than answers.

“Sorry, Suika. Despite my rather expansive vocabulary, and ability to wax on about nonsense for hours on end, I don’t think I could simplify the reason more than that.”

And it’s true, what you say.

Because then you would be forced to start off by telling her about the old world, dull and monotone, filled with unambitious nobodies that were afraid of originality and the trueness of their own character.

You would have to reveal to her the circumstances in which you first met the light that now guides you, the colour that paints your vision, and the muse to your art, Ishigami Senku.

Even after that, how do you begin explaining to a child, born into a world as primitive as this one, the complexities of something that’s been non-verbally established centuries ago, something that was instinctual rather than described.

She simply would not understand, no matter how prettily you dress your words.

Perhaps you’ll tell her when she’s grown older, a tale for another day, when she’s lived her own experiences rather than learning about yours.

For now, you will close the script that writes your story. Who doesn’t like a bit of mystery?

[ Extra - Opening Act ]

“Hmm, a unique but befitting opening line to introduce a new supporting character into a seemingly already ragtag cast…”

“Ragtag?!” Gen exclaims.

“Ragtag…” Ukyo sighs, exceedingly exasperated.

“Ragtag?” Suika questions, not hearing the word before.

Senku chuckles beside you and crosses his arms. “I suggest you let them finish, or else they’ll make it everyone else’s problem later if their flare of inspiration is cut short.”

You continue on as if you didn’t hear them, chin pinched between your thumb and the knuckle of your pointer finger.

“How about…”

You hum and mumble for a few more seconds before your eyes light up with mirth. Right hand to your heart, your left arm is outstretched to your front, palm up, a gesture similar to that as if you were reaching for something.

“After centuries confined within a prison of the mind, not a soul to keep them company bar their own, thou hast finally freed thyself! One’s solitude gnawed at thy skin and mystery shrouded thy thoughts. No more are the shackles that bind them yap yap yap yap…”

To Gen, all of your words blend together as he loses even more sense as to what kind of person you are. What he does know is that you’re exactly like Senku in a way, it’s endearing, almost.

“I see we’ve revived yet another eccentric…” Gen whispers to the archer next to him. Ukyo can only laugh sparingly.

When the mentalist turns back to you, you’re wrapping up your rather flamboyant display. “Onwards, the travesty we call life shall commence once again, so get excited!”

#gn!reader #gender neutral reader #ishigami senku #senku x reader #senku ishigami x reader #drst x reader #dr stone x reader #dcst x reader

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hurtspideyparker · 2 months ago

Text

Avengers High School AU

based on this post of mine

At a Party:

Clint: Here's a drink Pete

Tony: *takes solo cup from Peter* You idiot, he's underage!

Clint: So are we dipshit

Tony: *Chugs Peter's drink*

Clint: Whatever, I'll get him a lemonade

Tony: *Chugs his own drink*

—

Natasha: Steve I saw Tony heading for the janitor's closet

Steve: Okay?

Natasha: With Clint

Steve, sprinting down the hall: NOT THE TOILET PAPER BARTON

—

Bucky: Would you like to go out sometime?

Natasha: No

Bucky: I respect that. *Turns to Sam* would you like to go out sometime

Sam: Wait—but you just. What the hell man

Bucky: I'll take that as a no. *Turns to Clint* would you like to—

Clint: Fuck yeah

—

Tony: Did you hear about the fire in the chem lab?

Steve: Tony, what did you do

Tony: It wasn't me this time!

Steve: Oh. That's new

Tony: I mean I did text Bruce the calculations, it's not my fault he didn't see the decimal

Steve: Tony!

—

Natasha: And that's why I transferred in the middle of last year

Sam: Isn't that like...a crime

Natasha: Nobody will believe you.

Sam: What? What do you mean by that

Natasha, disappearing into the crowd:

Sam: What do you mean by that?!

—

Peter: Hi Captain!

Steve: You know only the football team calls me that Peter. I'm not your Captain

Peter: Yes sir

Steve: I'm only 2 years older than you, you don't need to call me sir either

Peter: Okay Captain!

Steve: No just...whatever

—

Tony: Hey Bruce whatcha reading

Bruce: AH! Oh hey dude

Tony: Wow you're jumpy. You need to relax

Bruce: I don't think I've relaxed once since I met you but thanks for the advice

—

Clint: Do you think Thor was held back?

Sam: Naw man, he's pretty smart

Clint: But he looks like he has a 401k and a mortgage

Bucky: Talks like it too

Sam: Maybe it's a Europe thing, school is different there

Clint: Maybe. Hey Thor! What's up buddy, how's the wife and kids?

Thor: Ay? Um...well? And yours my friend?

Clint: Fantastic! Well it was good seeing you

Thor: Alright then, farewell

Sam: What an odd guy

Bucky: Nice though

Clint: Real nice dude

—

Pepper: Tony, stop flirting with me to make Steve jealous

Tony: Whaaaaat, I would never

Pepper: You very loudly told your table, which is right next to mine, "I'm going to go flirt with Pepper to make Steve jealous"

Tony: Well do you think it's working?

Steve, at Tony's table: No

—

Peter: The decathlon supervisor is already one of my references, and I tutor for Mrs. Warren's freshman class a lot so I have her too. I also volunteered at a special needs camp over the summer, plus I applied for this competitive course where you write a research paper under a university professor for junior year, and if I get it that will look really good on my MIT application. I just hope it doesn't interfere with my internship at Oscorp. What about you, what are you doing to prepare for graduation? Aren't college apps due, like, next month for you?

Bucky: Well my boss at Dunkin Donuts said he'd give me a reference. Chicks in the drive through always tip me well

—

Sam: Why'd you punch Rumlow!

Steve: Cause he was saying creepy stuff about Natasha!

Bucky: You shouldn't have done that man

Steve: What do you mean, he was being a total asshole, I don't care if I get detention

Sam: It's not him you should be worried about

Natasha: Rogers, that was MY punch to throw

Steve: Oh no

Natasha: You think I'm some damsel in distress? Come here and I'll show you a damsel in distress

Steve: I, uh, gotta go *runs out the door*

Natasha: Which way did he go.

Sam: I didn't see nothin'

Bucky: Out those doors and to the left

Sam: Bruh

Bucky: A true friend understands when the consequences are necessary *kicks Rumlow who's still lying on the ground as he walks away*

—

Bruce: What did the racing hot dog say when he passed the finish line?

Tony: What

Bruce: I'm a wiener!

Everyone:

Bruce: Get it? Like winner?

Tony: It's okay man, just stick to academics

Thor: I have one! A priest, a pastor, and a rabbi walk into a bar

Everyone:

Thor: HAHAHA, what a coincidence for them all to arrive in the establishment simultaneously!

*Everyone bursts out laughing*

Bruce: Oh come on, that wasn't even a joke!

Tony: See he has charisma. It's all about the delivery Brucie Bear

—

Sam: Wait, you're saying that the elephant toothpaste all over the second floor right before midterms was you?

Rhodey: Hell yeah it was

Sam: But everyone blamed Tony. Even Tony's parents and the principal. The only reason he wasn't suspended was because the cameras were wiped of evidence, which was also blamed on Tony

Rhodey: Yeah you'd be surprised about how much stuff I do that Tony gets blamed for. Public image does wonders to create bias

Sam: What the hell? I thought you were the responsible one and Tony was your monkey on a leash. Why does he let you blame him?

Rhodey: Cuz he's a good bro. He gets to piss his parents off, I don't get kicked out of ROTC, and then we laugh about it afterwards

Sam: You evil geniuses...

—

Wanda: I want to get married

Natasha: Are you pregnant?

Wanda: What? No

Natasha: Oh thank goodness. Wait, then why do you want to get married

Wanda: Because it's romantic!

Natasha: And the tax benefits?

Wanda: No! Well, yes that would be nice, but no! I want to be a stay at home mom and have a nice family

Natasha: Girl you failed home economics and your type is men who think calling you their "situationship" is making it official, why don't we focus on finding the vertex for now

—

If u like this vibe I have a domestic Avengers "in a timeline where Civil War didn't end in divorce" series as well:

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3 :P

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youthguk · 1 month ago

Text

Front seat surrender | jjk (m) | Parasocial

pairing: jungkook x reader

genre: smut, car sex, oral (m receiving), best friends with benefits, a little bit toxic, jungkook and reader are a little messy and ruin life’s of people around them

words: 4,6k

summary: jungkook was yours even if you had a boyfriend and another girl was warming his bed. you had him wrapped around your finger. one sharp breath, one heated stare— two bodies reckless in the backseat

this is a part 2 of parasocial series. however, this can be read as a stand alone story!

Reason #2. Front seat surrender

"The hell is wrong with you tonight?" The words cut through the party noise, making you wince.

You slouched deeper into the couch cushions, your plastic cup dangling limply between your fingers. The bass thumped through the floorboards as people laughed and danced around you, their joy making your mood feel even more out of place.

The summer breeze drifted through the open windows, carrying the sweet scent of June flowers. Your first year of university lay conquered behind you - a battlefield of all-nighters, caffeine-fueled study sessions, and those nerve-wracking moments before exam results. But through it all, Jungkook had been your constant, your anchor. The same guy who'd shared your elementary school lunch table was now sharing your college journey, your paths parallel even as you pursued different dreams - you in the biology labs, him in the maze of computer science.

"God, you two are totally dating, right?" The question followed you everywhere like an echo, bouncing off hallway walls and floating across cafeteria tables.

The memories of that night in senior year still burned bright - Jungkook's fingers intertwined with yours, his whispered words against your skin: "It should be me. I want it to be special for you." After that, something shifted. The careful dance of friendship blurred into something more intimate. His touch lingered longer - an arm sliding around your waist in crowded corridors, pulling you onto his lap during lunch breaks, his palm warm against your thigh. You found yourself melting into these moments, your fingers absent-mindedly playing with his hair while he hunched over textbooks in your room, or curling into his side during movie nights, his heartbeat steady under your ear.

The whispers grew louder. Even as Jungkook worked his way through the university's dating scene, you remained his constant star in an ever-rotating constellation.

"We're just friends," became your mantra, even as something deeper stirred in your chest, unacknowledged and unnamed.

Each time he disappeared with another girl, you swallowed the bitter pill of jealousy with a smile. Because no matter whose bed he woke up in, you were still the one he'd drop everything for at 3 AM if you needed him.

But watching him with others carved little wounds in your heart, each one deeper than the last.

Then Ren appeared - all soccer-star swagger and magnetic charm. His pursuit was relentless, and you found yourself drawn to him like a moth to flame. The resulting explosion with Jungkook was nuclear.

"What the hell does it matter to you?" Your voice had risen with each word, hands trembling.

Jungkook's eyes had flashed dangerously. "What does it matter? Are you seriously asking me that?"

"Yeah, I am! You're out there hooking up with half the campus, but God forbid I actually date someone!"

"That walking STD clinic?" Jungkook's voice had softened then, that familiar tenderness creeping back in. "You deserve better than that, baby. You deserve the world."

"Maybe I want to decide what I deserve." Your chin had lifted defiantly. "I'm giving him a chance."

Six months later, that argument still simmered between you, erupting periodically in heated exchanges and meaningful glares.

Ren, your golden boy with his campus king crown, was everything Jungkook wasn't - and that was both the appeal and the problem. He couldn't comprehend your relationship with Jungkook, couldn't understand why your best friend's hands still found their way to your waist, why his lips still brushed your cheek in greeting. Jungkook, for his part, seemed to delight in pushing those boundaries, his touch growing more possessive whenever Ren was watching.

"Have you fucked him?" Ren's question had come like a thunderbolt after watching Jungkook's hand slide dangerously low on your back.

The lie had tasted bitter: "No." You'd avoided his eyes, guilt churning in your stomach. What was there to tell? It was ancient history - well, sort of.

Despite his obvious hatred for Jungkook, Ren stayed. He took you on proper dates, showered you with gifts, and yes - the sex was good.

When Jungkook found out about that last part, his reaction was explosive.

"You should have talked to me first!" His voice had cracked with emotion.

You'd laughed, sharp and defensive. "Since when do I need your permission for my sex life?"

"Don't you remember-" He'd run his hands through his hair in frustration. "Why are you cutting me out because of him?"

But you weren't cutting him out - you were just drawing lines that should have existed all along. Every time you did, Jungkook acted like you were severing vital arteries instead of creating healthy boundaries.

His possessive tantrums had been almost entertaining - until Teri. Tall, blonde, and apparently more than just another notch on Jungkook's bedpost. A month had stretched into two, and now she was everywhere - at group hangouts, campus parties, even movie nights. The sight of her made your stomach twist.

"Want to catch Anora?" You'd called him last week, missing him and any attention while Ren was away despite the constant stream of texts from your boyfriend.

"Already saw it with Teri." His casual response had felt like a slap. Since when did Jungkook take his hookups to movies? "But hey, Teri's roommate is throwing this end-of-year thing next week. You in?"

"I..." The lump in your throat had made it hard to speak. Their campus was an hour away, and the thought of watching them together made you feel physically ill.

"Come on," he'd coaxed, his voice holding that special warmth reserved just for you. "I'll drive you there myself."

An hour alone in his car? "Okay," you'd agreed before your brain could catch up with your heart.

But now, a week later, at this very party, you were sitting there with a sour expression that you weren't even trying to hide.

Everything started not as you wanted when he picked you up to get to the party.

The car ride started with Jungkook pulling up in his cherished '98 Toyota Supra - the same one that had carried you through countless high school adventures. You tugged at your tank top, the summer heat providing a convenient excuse for the revealing outfit and short denim skirt you'd chosen for this hour alone with him.

"Remember when we almost crashed this thing trying to learn stick shift?" you asked, sliding into the familiar passenger seat.

His laugh filled the car. "You mean when you almost destroyed my clutch?"

The conversation flowed effortlessly in your little bubble, words tumbling out unfiltered between bursts of laughter. Your hand found its way to the back of his neck - an old habit - fingers threading through the soft hair there. Usually, this would be when his hand would find your thigh, that familiar touch that always sent warmth pooling in your stomach.

But something was different today. Each time his hand drifted toward you, he'd pull back sharply, as if burned. The sixth time it happened, you couldn't help but notice how white his knuckles were on the steering wheel.

"What the fuck?" you muttered under your breath. Since when did Jungkook hold back with you? Was this about... her? The thought of Teri being the reason for this new restraint made your chest tight with an emotion you refused to name.

"You okay?" he asked, glancing over.

"Peachy," you replied, forcing a smile. What right did you have to feel this way? Ren's latest text sat unread in your phone, a reminder of your own relationship status. So you swallowed the bitterness and kept the conversation light, even as jealousy gnawed at your insides.

The house came into view, music already pulsing through the walls, fairy lights twinkling in the growing dusk. Jungkook's hand found its usual spot on your lower back as you navigated through the crowd of drunk students, his body a protective shield behind yours.

Teri spotted you from across the room, Annie and Tom trailing behind her. Her face lit up at the sight of Jungkook, and she moved in for a kiss. Your stomach lurched, but Jungkook - after catching your eye - only gave her a quick hug.

"I'm sooo glad you made it," Teri slurred, swaying slightly. You couldn't help but roll your eyes.

After a few dances with Jungkook, his hands stayed firmly on your waist - no wandering touches like before. Your skin tingled where his fingers should have been but weren't. The bass pulsed through your body as you watched Teri and her friends whisk him away, leaving you alone with Annie and Tom on the couch. Their lips locked together while you nursed your drink, stealing glances at Teri hanging off Jungkook's neck, her lips brushing his ear. Despite staying sober to drive you home, he seemed to be enjoying her attention.

"Hello? Earth to space cadet?" Annie's voice cut through your brooding. Tom finally came up for air, both of them staring at you.

You drained your beer, pushing yourself up from the couch. "I'm out."

Annie's hand shot out, grabbing your wrist. "Are you crazy? It's barely been two hours!" She spun you toward the dancing crowd, where several guys were already eyeing you appreciatively. "Look at all these guys checking you out."

You rolled your eyes. "I have a boyfriend, Ann."

"Funny how you only remember that when it's not about Jungkook," Annie muttered, but the alcohol buzzing through your system let you brush it off.

"Boring. I'm leaving," you insisted, pulling away.

"It's late, and dressed like that? Have you lost your mind?" Genuine concern laced Annie's voice.

Your lips curved into a mischievous smile. "I'll find someone to drive me. Didn't you just point out all my admirers?" You winked at her.

Weaving through the crowd, you zeroed in on the most attractive guy you could spot through your beer goggles. "Want to give me a ride, handsome?" The words dripped like honey from your lips. His eyes darkened with desire and understanding. The attention, even this kind, soothed the ache in your chest, numbing the cocktail of anger, hurt, and jealousy burning in your stomach.

He nodded, tongue darting out to wet his bottom lip as he led you toward the door. The crowd's energy vibrated around you as you pushed through. A flutter of nervousness tickled your stomach, but something in the back of your mind told you this night would end exactly as you planned.

The stranger stopped so abruptly you collided with his back. Like clockwork. Showtime.

"Get the fuck out before I make you." Jungkook's voice rumbled like thunder, and the stranger vanished like morning mist. You lifted innocent eyes to meet Jungkook's, watching his broad chest rise and fall with barely contained rage. "What the hell are you thinking?"

Victory danced through your veins. Just as you knew he would, your Jungkook had been watching, even while entertaining Teri across the room. Your Jungkook would never let you leave with anyone else.

"I just wanted to go home," you murmured, pushing your lower lip out into a pout and furrowing your brows. Pure innocence. Jungkook's scowl began to soften around the edges, even as he fought to maintain his anger.

You flashed him an angelic smile, bringing your index finger to your lips in that way you knew drove him crazy - one of many secrets you'd shared over late-night conversations about what got you both going, even now with other people in your beds. "My head's spinning... I can't stay here anymore," you whispered, and the last of his frown melted away.

How could he stay mad at you?

"You know I would've taken you home - all you had to do was ask!" He guided you toward the exit, his frustration evident in every step.

The June night air kissed your skin as you walked to his car. "You seemed busy," you purred, and Jungkook's growl sent shivers down your spine.

"Bullshit. You know I'm never too busy for you." He ran his fingers through his hair, jaw clenched. God, he looked good when he was worked up.

"Sorry," you gazed up at him through your lashes as he steadied you with a hand on your waist, helping you into the car.

"I forgive you, but I wouldn't forgive myself if something happened to you." He gripped the steering wheel tight, starting the engine.

"Kookie," you cooed, reaching out to stroke his neck. "Isn't it amazing that we have each other?"

A smirk played at his lips. "You could say that."

"No, really..." Your fingers traced the curve of his bicep, giving in to your body's constant need to touch him, to confirm he was still yours. Completely.

His arm tensed beneath your touch, a fleeting reaction, but you felt it. His gaze flicked toward you—dark, hungry—before snapping back to the road. A muscle in his jaw ticked as his eyes had taken in the way your legs, bare under the short skirt, angled toward him.

Yet, Jungkook kept his hands on the wheel. Kept his focus.

“We’ll always be in each other’s lives. I won’t allow anything else,” he murmured, his tone as steady as if he were reciting the time.

Your thighs pressed together, heat pooling between them, betraying you.

“Stop at that little shop and get me some ice cream,” you said, your voice feigning nonchalance. “And get some for yourself too.”

Jungkook let out a short chuckle, shaking his head. “Well done, Y/n. You’ve got me wrapped around your finger.” Yet, he pulled into the lot without hesitation.

The gas station shop stood mostly deserted, its neon sign buzzing faintly in the night. Your pulse quickened as you realized—no audience. Of course, Jungkook’s windows were tinted, but if your little plan worked, you wouldn’t want any spectators anyway.

Jungkook stepped out, leaving you alone in the car. You watched him through the windshield, eyes trailing the broad line of his back, the powerful way he moved. He’d always been good-looking, even in high school, but university had sculpted him into something more—a man.

Your fingers curled against your thighs, pressing hard. A slow, traitorous thought slithered through your mind. If his body had changed this much, what else had?

You threw your head back against the seat, exhaling sharply. Fuck. This was Jungkook. Why did you start this?

Ren.

Your stomach twisted. You had a boyfriend. A serious relationship. Or at least, it could’ve been serious—could’ve become something real.

Your eyes flicked back up, catching Jungkook’s reflection in the glass door as he stepped out, two ice creams in hand. And just like that, the guilt evaporated.

He slid into the driver’s seat, handing you yours, but before he could start the car, you stopped him.

“Wait. Let’s eat here.”

He stilled, turning his head slightly. His gaze dropped again, just for a second, to your skirt before he forced it back up. His fingers tapped against the steering wheel. “It’s dark,” you continued. “We’ve got half an hour left to drive. Let’s just sit for a bit.”

Jungkook’s lips pressed together as if he were testing the weight of your words. Then, with a slow nod, he leaned back. “Amazing reasoning for someone who was ready to leave with a stranger ten minutes ago,” he muttered, a trace of irritation lacing his voice.

You swatted at his thigh—a playful tap. But the way his muscles jumped under your palm wasn’t lost on you.

You ate in relative ease, chatting about summer plans, laughter slipping in between bites. You avoided mentioning Ren’s lake house, the two weeks you were supposed to spend there. Jungkook talked about work, how he was saving up for a new car.

The ice cream melted, sticky and sweet.

Your thumb smeared with a drop, and instinctively, you brought it to your lips, tongue darting out to clean it. But not before making sure Jungkook was watching.

His Adam’s apple bobbed.

“You’ve got something…” His voice was rougher now, his thumb gesturing to the corner of your mouth.

You blinked at him, feigning innocence. “Where?”

He pointed again, this time on himself.

You tilted your head, pretending to inspect your reflection in the mirror before sighing. “Better clean it yourself, Jungkookie.”

His breath hitched—just barely, but enough. He reached forward, swiping his thumb across your lips. The warmth of his skin sent a shiver down your spine.

You caught his wrist before he could pull away, guiding his touch. Slowly, deliberately, you let him trace the outline of your lips. His pupils blew wide as his breathing grew heavier.

You parted your lips, drawing his thumb inside, your tongue curling around the pad of it.

Jungkook went rigid.

His fingers twitched, barely brushing against your teeth, his breath coming out in shallow, uneven bursts. You sucked lightly, slow and deliberate, eyes locked on his. The effect was instant—his chest rose sharply, his other hand gripping his thigh.

“Y/n, you—”

You sucked harder, feeling the way his body jerked, the way he shifted uncomfortably in his seat. His free hand found his belt, gripping it like an anchor.

Poor thing. Big, intimidating Jungkook, the guy everyone feared—sitting before you, struggling to keep himself together.

You pulled his thumb from your lips with a wet pop.

“I…” You leaned closer, voice dripping with intent. “Want to take care of my friend.”

Your fingers trailed down, tracing the outline of his jeans. Even through the fabric, he was already straining against it.

Jungkook cursed under his breath, eyes dark and unreadable. “Fuck, Y/n, don’t joke like that.”

You smiled, wicked and knowing.

Still, he barely hesitated as he shoved his seat back, giving himself more space.

His legs spread wide, head tilted back against the headrest, breath shallow.

The space between you crackled with unspoken words, heavy breaths filling the car like a storm about to break. His fingers trembled slightly as they brushed your waist, hesitating—just for a second—before his hunger swallowed his restraint whole.

“Fuck,” Jungkook muttered, his voice raw as his forehead met yours, eyes dark and unreadable. “We shouldn’t—”

“We already are,” you whispered, undoing his zipper with slow, deliberate precision, your touch both a challenge and an invitation. His breath hitched, his restraint fracturing as your hand wrapped around his hard cock, warmth searing through your palm. His jaw clenched, a curse escaping between gritted teeth.

You felt him, hot and heavy in your grip, marveling at how thick and perfect he was. The way he twitched in your grasp, the heat radiating off him, made your mouth water. The anticipation pulsed between your legs, the ache undeniable as wetness pooled between your thighs.

His head fell back against the headrest as you leaned down, the tip of your tongue teasing him, tasting the anticipation on the tip of his dick. The groan that tore from his throat sent shivers down your spine, deep and guttural, like he was losing himself in you..

“Fuck, baby…” His fingers found your hair, gripping tight—too tight, a contradiction between wanting control and surrendering to you entirely.

You let him guide you, let him use you, taking him deeper, reveling in the way his composure unraveled with every flick of your tongue. The way he cursed your name, a plea and a punishment in one breath. You moaned softly around him, reveling in the weight of him on your tongue, in the way he barely held himself together under your touch. The way he filled your mouth, stretching your lips, sent an intoxicating thrill through your body. You were dripping for him, your thighs clenched together, desperate for friction.

The car’s interior felt suffocatingly small, filled only with the slick sounds of desperation and the raw edge of something neither of you wanted to name. You were lost in it, lost in him, lost in the way he unraveled for you so beautifully. And when his body finally tensed, his release shattering through him, the sound he made sent a shiver down your spine—a sound so unguarded, so devastatingly undone that you felt yourself trembling in response.

But the hunger wasn’t satisfied. Not yet.

Even as he came undone in your mouth, his body still thrummed with hunger. Lust. That damn longing neither of you could outrun.

His breathing was ragged as he grabbed a condom, his fingers shaking just enough for you to notice. He slid it on swiftly before pulling you onto his lap, hands gripping your hips like he was afraid you’d slip away.

His fingers found the hem of your tank top, pushing it up with deliberate slowness, his eyes darkening as your breasts spilled free. He groaned, dragging his thumbs over your nipples before taking one into his mouth, his tongue circling, teeth grazing, making you arch against him.

“Fuck, you’re perfect,” he murmured against your skin, his voice wrecked with desire.

You stared at each other in the dim light, breath mingling, hearts hammering against ribs like they wanted to break free. His lips parted, something unspoken lingering there, but neither of you dared voice it.

Because this wasn’t just lust.

It was poison, dressed as passion.

And yet, as you sank down onto him, your body stretching to take him in, the only thing that mattered was the way he filled you, the way his hands gripped you tighter—like you were the only thing keeping him tethered to the moment.

“God, you feel…” Jungkook's voice broke off into a growl, his forehead pressing against your shoulder, his hands roaming your body with reverence and possession.

His fingers hooked into the waistband of your short denim skirt, shoving it up roughly to expose the slick heat between your legs. His grip tightened as he thrust up into you, the stretch so intoxicating it made your head spin.

You gasped, nails digging into his shoulders as pleasure crashed through you in waves. He groaned, his hands steadying your hips before he snapped his own upwards, burying himself deeper. The force of it sent a cry tumbling from your lips, the intensity overwhelming as he set a brutal pace.

“Fuck, you’re so tight,” he panted, his voice trembling with restraint, but the way his hips surged up against yours betrayed his desperation. His hands wandered, one gripping your waist possessively while the other trailed down, slipping between your thighs. The second his fingers found your clit, rubbing slow, deliberate circles, your entire body tensed.

Your breath hitched, vision blurring as pleasure coiled tight, unbearable, electric. His touch was ruthless, his thrusts pushing you closer and closer to the edge until the pleasure became too much to hold back.

“Jungkook—” His name broke from your lips in a strangled moan as you came undone around him, waves of ecstasy rippling through your body. Your walls clenched tight around him, pulling him deeper, making him groan as he chased his own release.

His movements grew frantic, desperate, his teeth grazing your shoulder, his hands gripping your hips with bruising force. And when he finally let go, his release spilling into the condom, he clung to you like a drowning man.

The air between you was thick with something more than lust—something dangerous, something that made you forget why this should’ve never happened in the first place.

And when you finally collapsed against his chest, panting, trembling, your bodies tangled together in the sticky heat of the moment, you knew it wouldn’t be the last time.

No matter how much you wished it would be.

You gripped the car door handle, knuckles white against the cool metal as the engine rumbled beneath you. Jungkook's cologne filled the space between you, mixing with the crisp night air that whistled through a crack in the window. Neither of you spoke, but your racing heartbeat seemed to echo in the silence.

"So." His voice cut through the quiet, lips curving into that familiar half-smile. "Is this your way of telling me you and Ren are over?"

Ren's name hit you like a punch to the gut. You pressed your forehead against the cool glass of the window, watching streetlights blur past. "No," you whispered, your reflection avoiding his gaze in the darkened glass. "I... I don't know what's gotten into me."

Jungkook's low chuckle vibrated through the car. "I do."

Your gaze snapped to him. "What?"

His eyes caught yours, dark and knowing. "This was your way of checking if I still belong to you."

Your chest tightened. "That's not—"

"Don't lie to me, baby." His words sliced through yours, wrapped in a velvet laugh. "I know you better than you know yourself."

The truth of his words sank into your skin like ice water. Your reflection stared back at you, cheeks flushed with shame.

Your nails carved crescents into your palms as you clenched your fists in your lap. Every cell in your body screamed with self-loathing - for the betrayal, for the way your skin still tingled where Jungkook had touched you, for knowing you'd never look at Ren the same way again.

Jungkook's voice dropped to a husky whisper. "How do you plan on fucking him now?" His words dripped like honey laced with poison. "Now you that you remembered how good my dick feels?"

Heat bloomed across your face, equal parts shame and something darker, hungrier. You smacked his arm. "You're an asshole."

His laugh filled the car as he gripped the steering wheel tighter. "Maybe." Those eyes found yours again, gleaming. "But you love it."

The next morning, you blinked against harsh fluorescent lights as you emerged from your last biology lecture. Your notebook was filled with sketches of cell membranes and chemical equations, but your mind kept drifting to other things. The strap of your bag dug into your shoulder as you pushed through the heavy doors into the summer air.

Your lips curved upward as fragments of last night flickered through your mind - the way Jungkook's fingers had branded your skin, how perfectly he'd filled you, the rough edge in his voice when he'd...

"Y/N."

The sharp voice shattered your daydream. You spun around, and your stomach plummeted to your feet. There stood Teri, her manicured nails digging into the strap of her designer bag.

Her mascara-rimmed eyes blazed, lip curled back in a snarl. "Slut." The word cracked like a whip in the space between you.

Your jaw clenched tight enough to ache. "Excuse me?"

In one fluid motion, Teri reached into her bag and hurled something at your feet. The familiar scrap of black lace made your blood run cold. Your underwear.

The ones you'd left tangled in Jungkook's backseat.

Shit.

Whispers rippled through the crowd of students gathering around you, but they felt distant, underwater.

Teri's voice trembled, each word sharp as broken glass. "You think I'm stupid? You and Jungkook—using people like we're fucking disposable while you two play whatever twisted game this is?" Her voice climbed higher, cracking at the edges. "You clearly have feelings for each other. So why the hell are you dragging the rest of us into your mess?"

Your mouth opened and closed, but your throat had sealed shut. What defense could you possibly offer?

She stepped closer, close enough that you could see tears gathering in her eyes beneath the anger. "You could've just had him. Why mess with others?"

The guilt pressed against your ribcage like a physical weight. But underneath it, something else unfurled - a dark satisfaction that purred: She's gone now. Jungkook was never meant to be hers anyway. She was just trying to be another obstacle between you and him.

Because what you and Jungkook shared was sacred. Untouchable. Beyond anyone else's understanding.

part 3

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